


Fluttering Hearts

by Shigure_Natsu



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (If Captive Prince happened in the Victorian Era), Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bakery, Basically Damen is a noble turned baker and Laurent is a smarter version of Robin Hood, Canon-Typical Violence, Con Artists, Found Family, Library, M/M, Magic, POV Alternating, Soulmates, The Prince's Guard being an amazing support system, The Regent being the Regent, mentions of abuse, mentions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shigure_Natsu/pseuds/Shigure_Natsu
Summary: Damianos, heir of the Akielos family, has disappeared from the public eye years ago. No one knows he's moved to Marlas, and spends most of his days working in the bakery he opened with his best friend, sprinkling magic in his every pastry.Laurent, heir of the De Vere family, has decided that if he is to be cursed with a manipulative power, then he might as well use it to help those in need, spending his days moving people around like chess pieces, only those closest to him knowing who he truly is inside.And then they meet.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 42
Collections: Captive Prince Secret Santa 2020





	Fluttering Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarlet-kingsnake (high_spring_tide)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_spring_tide/gifts).



> For **scarlet-kindsnake**. I hope you enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> You said there was no pressure to include a couple of your prompts at the same time but watch me be the overachiever I am and include nearly ALL OF THEM. That's why this got somewhat out of hands in terms of wordcount, but at least I managed to stop myself at 40k!
> 
> (Edited but unbeta'd. Any mistakes left are my own.)
> 
> More about the trigger warnings in the end notes.

As Damen sets foot into the bakery, he’s filled with the same sense of peace, the same sense of belonging, that always finds him there. It smells of warmth, when the outside is dark and cold, midnight barely gone by, and mostly, it smells of laughter and joy, the flavors hidden in every nook and cranny of the old house, the memories running deep into its foundations. 

He leaves his coat at the door, rolls up the sleeves of his linen shirt, and gets to work.

Hours later, he’s basking in the physicality of it all - kneading the dough, infusing it with sparks of love, baking some of the pastries prepared yesterday, the ovens running hot and forcing him to shed his shirt - when the door opens.

“You’re in early,” he greets without turning back, a smile on his face.

A gruff groan is all the reply he gets, and, from the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Nikandros’ silhouette, still swaying from sleep, a yawn escaping him. “Didn’t you specifically ask me to come and make my berry pie today, you ass?”

Damen’s laugh rings out in the whole kitchen.

Hours later, the sun has finally risen, and Damen is putting the finishing touches on butter scones when the bell from the entrance rings. Nikandros is still busy carving out the designs on his pies, so Damen wipes his hands, puts his shirt hastily back on, and goes to the front of the old creaky house. A woman comes in from the paved street. Her clothes are drenched, rain that wasn’t there earlier falling heavily on the town still half asleep. She is a regular, and Damen greets her with his usual smile, pretending he doesn’t see her swoon. She’s married, after all.

“Hello, Madam. The usual?” he asks, already preparing her loaf of bread in thoughtless motions.

She considers it for only a moment, before replying. “Actually, could you add one of those pies for me? I believe Nikandros makes them, right?” she’s looking at the side door, as if she could see the other man working in the bakery through it.

“That he does!” Damen packs the pie as he talks, and pushes it in her direction.

The coins are already jingling in her hand, marked with a crest from the royal family of this land. He takes them, counts them. Waves the woman goodbye. And goes back to work.

“How many deliveries do you have to make today?” he asks Nikandros while arranging the next round of bread.

A sigh. “Too many, as usual.”

“Stop complaining, you know you love going to all those little old people’s houses to give them their bread.”

“I do,” Nikandros admits with a half-smile. His expression sours. “It’s all the nobles and their grand manors that annoy me.”

“You don’t even see them. The staff take care of it.”

“That’s precisely what annoys me,” Nikandros complains. “Too full of themselves, those noble shits…” he stops himself, barely, and sends a look in Damen’s direction. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You know I don’t take offense.” He shakes his head, “If I didn’t think just like you, do you think I’d be here, getting my hands all dirty with dough and whatnot?”

Nikandros rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t answer, probably still self conscious about his earlier tirade. Which makes it that much funnier for Damen to tease him. “You know, if you want to deliver any of those today, you might want to go about your pie making faster, oh master of the pastry,” he taunts, delighted.

“Sod off,” Nikandros growls, smacking Damen on the side with the towel on his shoulder. “Not everyone’s magic is as instantaneous as yours, your Highness. Now shut up and let me work.” Nikandros’ hands glow ever so faintly, a soft vermillon that stretches from his fingers to the knife he’s holding, carving delicate designs on the crust of his pies. They’re going to be magnificent, once they’re out of the oven. And the decorum will bring quite a sense of bliss, to anyone who will try them today.

*

The sun comes back in the late morning, pavement slippery from the earlier rain, people huddling close for warmth, and client upon client - some regulars, some travelers only looking for a quick snack on the road - streaming into the shop. Nikandros’ pies draw a crowd, as they’re wont to do, and Damen’s nearly out of them as he’s about to close shop for a little half hour break, his associate still running errands around town.

But before he can turn the sign around, a silhouette appears behind the windows, and sends the door nearly kicking into him, bell jingling as Damen catches the knob to stop the wood frame from slapping into him.

“We’re clos…” 

He can’t even finish his sentence. Ice blue eyes pierce his soul, rooting him to the spot. Until he has to remove himself from where he stands, and make way for the kid. The kid who’s sending daggers at him with his eyes, as if he wasn’t the one who just barged inside and nearly knocked him out.

“Hello, what can I offer you today?” he tries, going back behind the counter, eyeing the teenager with a mixture of surprise and wariness. He looks well off, pale skin, brown hair getting grown out in the current fashion, blue eyes alive with emotions - even if that very emotion right now is bordering on murder - clothes ironed and neatly creased, a velvety overcoat hanging from his still developing shoulders. He can’t be more than fifteen - younger, perhaps - and Damen has never seen him around.

Noticing he’s being sized up, the kid throws another glare Damen’s way, carrying himself with defiance written all over him. Why he thinks this is going to impress Damen - nearly 6’3”, full of hardened muscles Damianos - is a mystery. Though the kid does look like he would stab him with the nearest object available. A fork, as it turns out.

Damen clears his throat. Repeats. “Can I get you anything?”

The kid shifts on his feet. He isn’t looking at Damen anymore, but around, eyes widening as they pass the array of pastries and breads, as if it’s his first time ever in a bakery. He stops. “That smell…” 

He doesn’t elaborate. But Damen knows what he’s after.

“Those are the berry pies,” he supplies, uncrossing the arms he had crossed without even noticing. Softening. The kid looks ravenous, even though he must eat comfortably at home. Nikandros’ pies will do that to someone. “You can try a sample, if you want, or I can pack one directly for you.”

The murderous light in the blue eyes has died down, leaving behind only wonder, so Damen extends a plate, with a bite of one of the pies - the one they keep for sampling, and for eating around when there’s no one in the shop, which doesn’t happen often - and watches has the kid carefully takes it, and the fork.

It takes all of a second for the teenager to dig in, and the sound of utter surprise that escapes after his first taste startles a chuckle out of Damen. Which signals the return of the glare.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, though he isn’t, not really. “Tasting Nikandros’ pies for the first time usually gets that sort of reaction. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

Mentioning shame perhaps wasn’t the smartest of moves. For a moment, the kid looks ready to turn heels and flee back from whence he came. He stays put, though, elegantly depositing the plate and fork back, with only a minor tremor in his hand when he has to let the utensil go. He seems to collect himself, head held high, and asks:

“How much?” The words are stilted, uncouth. Unpracticed, perhaps. Damen would find him rude, if he wasn’t utterly fascinated with how endearing the teenager is, in his own way.

“Two silver Delphe,” he says. He doesn’t know if the kid’s eyes widen because he thinks it’s too expensive, or too cheap. Though the pouch of coins he then proceeds to get out seems to point to the later.

“Here.” The coins clatter on the counter, in the eerie silence that nestled itself between them. 

Damen packs the pie. Gives it to the kid. “Enjoy!” The smile comes naturally to him. He doesn’t get one in reply.

Only the sound of the chiming bell indicates the kid left. Somehow, Damen gets the sense he’ll see him again.

**

Laurent is pacing the hall carpet raw when he hears Nicaise’s footsteps in the gravel path. He immediately pretends to busy himself with one thing or another - picks up a book, pushes himself on the sofa, pretends to appear unbothered, though the way Jord side-eyes him informs him he’s doing a terrible job of it.

“I’m back,” Nicaise’s voice clamors, a small smile on his face.

Laurent’s relief quickly gets swept away by renewed worry, when he notices the package in Nicaise’s hands. Though the smell seems to indicate it’s nothing he has to fear, maybe even something to look forward to, he can’t quite help the way his gut clenches.

“Tell me he wasn’t acting completely beside himself the whole time I was out,” Nicaise asks Jord, voice flat, already expecting his answer.

Jord smiles, shaking his head. “I’d like to be able to.”

Gathering himself, Laurent rises, and walks up to his protégé. “This was your first outing into town, _alone_ ,” he emphases, checking Nicaise with a cursory glance, finding him unarmed and unruffled, “I have a right to be worried.”

Nicaise rolls his eyes, and pushes the package in Laurent’s arms. “Here. I got you - us,” he says, glancing to Jord, and to Aimeric he can see working around the rafters, his gaze searching for more of the staff and not finding any for now, “something.”

“Smells good,” Jord takes the package from Laurent’s hands, opens it to reveal a lavish pie, which aroma immediately fills their noses, carrying divine promises with it.

“From which bakery is this?” Laurent asks. It’s not their usual. The one Orlant goes to doesn’t have a baker who uses magic in his work, and this seems far too good to be from there, anyway.

Nicaise shrugs. “The one all the way around town,” he replies, knowing full well he’s giving Laurent an attack, though his body never betrays it. “I explored around as much as I could, and the smell drew me in. I think it’ll be good.”

Laurent waits until Nicaise is out of sight before he mutters to himself “It better be”.

*

The pie is divine indeed, taste bursting on their tongues in small spurts of magic weaved exquisitely, and Laurent would ask the name of the bakery if he didn’t know Nicaise would take it as an opportunity to gloat. 

His belly full, his mind still a bit hazy and his throat hurting a little from the magic - you’d think for someone relying heavily on his own powerful magic, he’d be more immune to its effects ; this once, he’s thankful whoever baked the pie used it so sparingly - he retires to his office for the afternoon, Jord following silently in his footsteps.

“Want me to ask for the baker’s name?” The question is out of his mouth the moment they’re alone behind closed doors, and Laurent smiles. His staff know him far too well.

He ruffles through a couple of papers - most of them about maintenance of the estate, money investments - until he finds the one he’s looking for. The one for the orphanage. “You could try. I wish you the best of luck trying to get it out of Nicaise.”

“You spoil the kid rotten,” Jord admonishes, but the smile at the corner of his lips betrays him. They all spoil Nicaise rotten. That’s part of their job, and Laurent or the staff wouldn’t have it any other way.

Skimming through Paschal’s letter, his brow creases. The funds he sent over last time weren’t enough for the town’s physician to cover all the construction expenses for the orphanage, and contractors are seemingly pushing him to cancel the contract. Laurent can’t have that. 

He’s writing his reply, jotting down notes on his accounting paper, trying to see how much he can get to Paschal how fast, when he hears Jord’s breathing pattern change. When he raises his head, Jord’s left hand is no longer working on his own task, but instead looking at him intently. “Another party tonight?”

Laurent nods. “Smaller one.”

“That’s more risky.” Jord’s expression has turned sour, and Laurent can understand why. He has to stop himself from wincing when he remembers the last time he almost got caught. He can’t stop his heart from beating a little harder in his chest, though.

“Vannes will be there. She’ll have my back,” he deadpans. And if he’s trying to convince himself, well, so be it.

A growl. “I know she will. That doesn’t mean it isn’t risky. This crowd knows you well, Laurent. One misstep, and…”

“Jord.”

The simple word, its glacial tone, the piercing gaze, are enough to make the man stop before he says anything else. He stands very still under Laurent’s scrutiny, relaxing only when Laurent goes back to his letter. 

“I know what I’m doing. And it’s important. You know that as well as I do.”

“I do. That doesn’t mean I am not worried about you.”

With a sigh, Laurent signs his letter, dusts it with sand, and seals it off. “Your job isn’t to worry about me, Jord. Your job is to make sure everything runs smoothly, lest you give yourself reasons to be worried.”

The man’s eyes and lips are pinched, when Laurent looks back. He rises from his chair at the corner of the room, taking books and papers with him, undoubtedly back to his room. On the threshold, he stops. Turns back to look at Laurent. “It may not be my job, but I owe that much to your brother.”

When the door closes behind him, the silent is all the more deafening for it. 

*

Between the lavish scents and heavy fog of the evening, the false laughs of the nobles ring out. Everyone’s mingling, hors-d’oeuvres in one hand, glass of alcohol in the other, putting their best clothes and their best masks on. 

As he told Jord, the party is small. He knows most of the guests - Vannes is sitting idly in one corner, conversing with another baroness Laurent has met on occasion, one that is no threat and no target, since she spends most of her days trying to hide what her husband’s gambling has done to the state of their estate - but the host himself, he’s never met. He had to pull a few strings to get here tonight. His name helped, of course. So did the stellar recommendations from all the nobles he’s been entertaining in the past few years.

The drink he’s sipping tastes bitter, enough to force him to focus on something else. He catches the Viscount walking up to him without so much as glancing away from his current conversation. He also sees, from the other corner of his eye, Vannes rising and excusing herself, moving strategically to steer anyone away from his encounter with their host.

“Viscount,” he greets, his fake smile artfully extending, hawks eyes taking in everything happening. “Pleasure meeting you.”

Like the way his hands and mouth linger a bit too much on his baise-main, as he greets Laurent, “Earl De Vere, the pleasure is all mine.” Laurent’s smile widens a bit more, this time genuinely. He did not make a mistake in the pawn he placed earlier, then. 

They exchange pleasantries for a while, about the state of the Viscount’s estate, or the village they’re currently located next to, the party tonight happening in the Viscount’s second manor house, reserved for vacationing away from the big cities in the summer. Laurent likes it. The interior is a bit stuffy, but the outside is green and lush, a lot like home in Marlas. And it’s only a two hours drive from there, which means he will not be back too late in the morning tomorrow.

Vannes signals him from her position. A small sign of the hand, almost imperceptible. His time is up. She can’t keep intruders away much longer.

With all the grace of a predator, Laurent moves ever so closer to his prey, and turns on the show.

He can see the moment his magic hits the Viscount just as he always can. The man’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, face going slack for only a milli-second, and then an amenable smile replaces the dazed expression. Nearly back to normal. Only Laurent can see the faint cloud of gold around the man’s head, scintillating as his own heart pulses.

“You seem extremely lonely tonight, Viscount, and I can’t help but notice the way you’ve been throwing glances at the Baron over there,” he says, pointing to the red-headed man clad in lavish green velvet, laughing openly in the middle of a small court of even smaller nobles, offering his neck and the slope of his back for the world to see. “And I’ve noticed him staring back.”

The Viscount nods, very slowly. He’s hanging onto Laurent’s every word, but his gaze has shifted to the man in green.

“Say, I’m sure you two could benefit from a word. In private.”

He makes the suggestion clear in his mind. And he pushes. 

Compelling people is easy. It’s only a question of timing, and applied pressure. It’s worked every time he’s tried it since he was a teen - and he doesn’t quite manage to remember what happened before that. It works just as well tonight.

The Viscount snaps out of his daze, only for his gaze to focus once again on the red-headed Baron, eyes steely. He excuses himself in one fell swoop, and Laurent, ever the gentleman, frees him from their conversation, and watches as the man makes his way across the room. Ten minutes later, as everyone is intoxicated by the alcohol and exquisite food, the Viscount and the Baron slip away, unnoticed.

“Good job,” Vannes congratulates him, standing an arms length away in a regal gown, looking the same way he is.

Laurent drinks one last gulp from his glass, deposits it on a table, and goes on with weaving his web of unwilling acolytes and shallow acquaintances.

“It’s not quite done yet.”

*

When Ancel slams his ass on the carriage’s seat opposite Laurent, he looks positively debauched. Hickeys are running up his neck, and probably lower, his long, fiery hair a mess of tangles, and the smile on his face is that of a sated cat.

“One of these days, Berenger is going to kill me,” Laurent says, matter of fact.

Ancel laughs. “Don’t worry about it. We have an agreement.”

“So you keep saying.”

With a sigh, but a smile still fixed on his raw lips, Ancel leans forward, closer to Laurent. Laurent shifts back, ever so slightly. “Stop grumbling. This was your idea. And you were as persuasive as ever, I must say.”

“I did not instruct him to sleep with you.”

“You never need to. You select them so well, only a push and they’re in your hands. Or in mine, anyways.” With that, Ancel produces a collection of papers, information, to be sold or used in a matter that Laurent sees fit, copied in Ancel’s hurried scroll. He also produces other things, things that Laurent is much more interested in. The little decor piece, in the shape of an egg, carefully crafted in golds and reds, precious stones dotted on its surface, and a faint magical glow emanating from it, is just as beautiful as Laurent thought it would be. Its price, once he resells it via his maze of vendors, is going to be even more magnificent.

He’s still admiring it when a cough drags him away from his stupor. Ancel is waiting. “A thank you would be nice.”

With a chuckle, Laurent lets a rare, true smile slip on his lips. “Thank you, Ancel. You did an admirable job, as you always do.”

Ancel shrugs, but there’s a faint pink blush on his cheeks he can’t quite hide. “It’s no big deal. You do most of the work , anyway, compelling them.”

“That just leaves you with sleeping with them, drugging them, picking locks, copying state or at least regional secrets, stealing a few valuables, and then putting everything back into place to make sure they don’t nothing anything is amiss until weeks later, too late for them to connect you to the theft. You’re really slacking off, aren’t you,” he teases, cradling the egg for a closer look, pleasure clear on his face as images from the orphanage flash back into his mind.

“Exactly.”

They’re both laughing as the carriage bumps its way up the road back to Marlas. Laurent thinks he might like another of those pies, when he gets back. As congratulations on yet another job accomplished.

**

Damen is busy with a horde of customers, three weeks later, when the postwoman stops by to deliver him a heavy envelope. He offers her her usual - a small almond cake, in which she bites with so much joy that Damen feels his heart swell from the sight - and carries on. He forgets all about it until Nikandros is back from the day’s tour, complaining about those new customers up on the other side of town with a huge manor that keep ordering his pies even though he is supposed to only make them once a week. Damen barely listens as he closes the front door for the day. Nikandros’ complaints have become only a background noise in his life, after so many years by each other’s side.

“And there’s this kid that keeps looking at me funny…” he’s grumbling, as Damen tears away the envelope’s flap, revealing its contents.

He freezes. 

He reads the words over and over again. Maybe Nikandros is talking to him. He isn’t sure. There’s this ringing in his ears, as the meaning of “we’re expecting a happy event” sinks in.

“Damianos?”

He jolts at the use of his full name. Nikandros is looking expectantly at him, as if he’s been calling him for the past few minutes. He probably has.

The words escape his mouth before he can reign them in. “Jokaste is pregnant.”

The world is still for a second. Nikandros talks, very carefully. “Kastor must be ecstatic.” Damen nods. He must be.

Damen should feel jealous of his brother. It's what would be expected, anyway. Instead, it's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. And he can finally let go.

His old feelings for Jokaste, discarded years ago, run through him one last time before they die on the shore of his memories, and there’s only elation left. A baby! That ought to change the scenery for a while.

He waves the letter in Nikandros’ face, a small smile creeping up his lips. “They’re planning a party to officially announce it next month. It has to remain a secret until then, understood?” 

“Sure,” Nikandros says with a shrug. “Who would I gossip about this with anyway?”

“You know all the old people in town would adore you for the news, even if they haven’t heard of the Akielos family in months.” Maybe even more so, he thinks for himself.

They’re packing for the evening, Damen babbling about everything he plans to gift the baby - a wooden horse being at the top of his list - when he notices Nikandros’ gaze on him. The one that says “I’m glad you’re taking this so well”. He’s glad he is, too.

*

The library doesn’t change. As he crosses the threshold, the scent of leather bound books and paper, and the filtering rays of sunlight cascading on the larger than life shelves are just as clear a memory as if he was five years old again, walking around behind his father and mother.

He doesn’t come as often as he’d like. Probably because the nostalgia tends to gnaw at him sometimes, though he likes to pretend it’s because he’s afraid one of the customers will recognize him. No one has seen Damianos of Akielos in ten years. Everyone knows the family estate is three hours south of Marlas anyways, though the main house hasn’t seen an inhabitant in a while. Kastor and Jokaste, however, remain in another, smaller residence. But the heir is lost to upper society.

Fluttering footsteps and whispers and turned pages fill his ears, and Damen drinks it all in as he weaves between the shelves, to find the library’s director. The office hasn’t changed either. Dust settling over piles of papers, and Heiron sitting behind the desk. A few more years - decades, in truth - have been added to his figure, sure, but he still welcomes Damen with the same smile he did all those years ago.

“Damianos. Such a pleasure. Please, be seated,” he greets him, voice warm.

The chair creaks under his weight, rendered fragile by time. But it endures. As do the library and the books it contains. A safe haven, away from passing years, tucked in a busy corner of town.

Damen gets the purse out of his satchel, and pushes it on the desk. “I’m here for my family’s monthly contribution to your fine establishment, Heiron. And as always, if there are funds needed for anything - a new extension, costly but precious books - you know where to send your inquiries.”

The purse stays where it is, Heiron regarding it with a mixture of gratefulness and sadness. A look he then turns on Damen. “Though I - and everyone working in this library - are very welcome for your fine contributions, and your much appreciated offers, Damianos, I hope you do know that you’re allowed to come into the library for something that isn’t filling our pockets.”

With a bittersweet smile, Damen laughs. “I know. It’s just…” he trails off. Starts back somewhere else. “I actually meant to peruse some of your books today? I thought it would be wiser to see whether or not you were in before I did. Wouldn’t have wanted to miss you.”

“I think those walls miss you more than we’d miss one of your monthly contributions, Damianos.”

They part ways, Heiron’s final words echoing in Damen’s mind. He loves the library, he really does. But he yearns more for what it represented then, much more than for what it can offer him now. 

He gravitates to the cooking aisle like it’s second nature by now. The books that accompanied him - and his mother, that traitorous voice in his head supplies - are still there, spines broken from one too many reads, weight familiar in Damen’s hands. He puts them back in. He’s not ready to open them yet. 

There are new acquisitions, however. A set of books with ivory paper, the smell of their leather cover nearly overpowering that of fresh ink. The first one deals in meats and fishes and all main courses, and he discards it quickly in favor of the second one. Desserts. A quick overview informs him that there are, in fact, recipes to pastries he hasn’t tried yet, or spins on ones he has that might prove interesting. He puts the book in his satchel, and heads for check out.

His gaze is fixed on the rows and rows of spines, their gold lettering hypnotizing him in the changing lights, so much so that he doesn’t notice the other set of footsteps coming his way, head buried in their own volume.

The collision isn’t violent, as far as collisions go. But the sound still resonates in the library, making heads turn. The other person’s book slaps the floor in a thunderous roar. Damen is already bending to pick it up, apologizing profusely, but they’re faster, and before he can finish uttering his remorseful sentence, he’s faced with icy eyes.

Though they remind him of the teenager from the other day - there’s that stillness to them, like a snake coiled to strike - it lacks the fiery heat of the kid’s eyes. This gaze, this glare, is full of disdain, ready to cut Damen down.

Damen falls head over heels almost instantly.

It doesn’t help that the man standing in front of him - for he is a man, though his hair is long, and blond, held in a low braid that falls over one of his shoulders - is the most gorgeous creature Damen’s ever seen. If he thought Jokaste was pretty, then that man is magnificent. Poets would perhaps call him an angel, with features delicate as porcelain, but Damen can see the cut of his muscles under his tightly sewn clothes, marble skin drawn taut as the man keeps from moving even an inch. The book that’s held in his pale hands is a thick tome on what Damen knows are laws regarding estates in this region, one he’s read as well a couple months ago, to stay up to date with how he’s managing the manor. That book was a pain in the ass.

Which means the man is also probably one of the smartest persons he’s ever seen. Or pretending to be, anyway. 

Well, fuck.

**

“I’m so very sorry.” The man had apologized profusely. Again, and again, and again. The words still ring in Laurent’s mind, as he gallops around the large pen, trying to free his thoughts. To no avail.

“Damn him,” he spits, and rushes his horse to the nearest obstacle, forgetting about his library encounter only for the short second he’s off the ground and in the air, flying if only for a moment.

He hadn’t said a word to the man. He’d been too embarrassed by his own clumsiness, his own unawareness of his surroundings, and now he’s fretting about it.

Not because the man had been rude. He hadn’t. He’d been an example in politeness even, checking whether or not Laurent was injured - with the sheer largeness and firmness of him, he might have been - and asking if he could do anything to redeem himself, before Laurent had walked away on him without a goodbye.

He’d been caught off guard. Laurent was never caught off guard. That was his thing. And yet he’d been. 

The man’s hands had brushed faintly against his when he’d dived to pick up Laurent’s book, and though his demeanor, the very way he carried himself, screamed nobility, his hands had been calloused, not from swords - or maybe not only from swords - but from manual labor. He’d smelled faintly of sugar and of magic, an intoxicating scent. And he’d had that look on his face, like a puppy that had just been kicked. 

And Laurent could never resist a kicked puppy.

Case in point, as he walks his horse back to the stables, both their bodies exhausted, but his mind still reeling. A first quip greets him, and then another, as two dogs come rushing straight for him, Aimeric standing ten feet behind them, unhooked leashes in his hands. Laurent rests his reins back on his horse’s neck only a second before the two creatures tackle him to the ground, their huge paws pinching his sides painfully, tongues lavishing his face in saliva.

He is the happiest man in the world.

Laurent laughs, and pushes at Lys and Crocus until they relent, dropping off his molested chest. “Down, girls, down.” His hands bury in their thick fur, embracing both of the dogs at once, as they yip and yap and push him around, leaving him a dirty mess.

“You and your strays,” Aimeric comments, a crooked smile at the corner of his lips, extended hand helping Laurent get up from the ground. 

“Half of those strays are from you all,” Laurent replies, pointing at the sheep grazing in a nearby field, taken in by Jord, the cat that’s pacing around that Nicaise found with the rest of its litter in an abandoned garden hut on the premises. He doesn’t even mention the three horses that weren’t in his stables only a year ago, the countless chickens and ducks and all the other creatures that fly from pond to pond in the summer, and many, many more.

Aimeric shrugs.

The inside of the manor is still and quiet this early in the morning, Nicaise still sleeping, Jord working, and the rest of the staff going about their daily tasks in silence. It’ll get more animated soon, once the kitchens get fired up for lunch, and Laurent’s associates come in for reports or appointments.

Lord Torvel is one of those appointments. He’s been by Laurent’s side since early in this little adventure, though he isn’t quite aware of all said adventure entails. Torveld manages the funds, makes most of the donations, except the ones for which Laurent has direct contact with the beneficiary, like Paschal.

“That’s… a lot,” he says, counting the golden Delphe in the bag, eyes wide.

“This month has been kind to our business,” Laurent replies like it isn’t a big deal. Like he hasn’t exhausted himself, magic at his fingertips, running under his skin, nearly drained for now, and brain tired from all the pieces he has to move. He’s currently writing what feels like his hundredth letter of the week, and it’s only Wednesday, for the Gods’ sake. A small smile, however, creeps up his lips when he thinks of the work ahead. “And it might be kinder still, given a few more weeks.”

It is only a rumor, a gossip, a swell amongst the nobles that no one really wants to believe. Though Laurent doesn’t remember much about Theomedes’ oldest son - or his youngest either, for that matter -, he is greatly aware of the name Akielos and what it entails. Auguste knew them best, used to hang out with Damianos, before… before the accident.

His smile sours, enough for Torveld to notice, and try and steer the conversation elsewhere. “What of the arrangements for this month?”

A simple question. A simple answer. That, Laurent can do. “Half of those,” he says, pointing to the coins, “are for Paschal, to be divided as he sees fit between the hospital and the orphanage’s construction. The other half is for you to deal with, as you always do.”

Torveld nods. Though any man would be beside themselves to hold a small fortune in their hands as he is right now, the man isn’t. That’s a quality Laurent appreciates in him. He knows he can trust Torveld to put the money in the right hands, and not withhold even a quarter of a Delphe for himself. 

It’ll take weeks of slow leveraging, careful red tape, delicate maneuvering, but soon, families in need will receive anonymous donations of a substantial amount. All thanks to Laurent, and his staff.

*

At least today’s lunch doesn’t bring any surprises. No meetings, only the staff. Just a relaxing meal, enjoying each other’s company.

Laurent couldn’t be more wrong. There’s, of course, the matter that meals with his staff - his family - are never relaxing. Nicaise is usually sat next to him, threatening or just picking on anyone that isn’t Laurent, or, more often these days, complaining about the fact that he can’t have his favorite pie every day. Jord is on his other side, an ocean of calm in the middle of an ever growing storm. Then there’s Aimeric, who has his days. Today isn’t a good day, it seems. Lazar is off somewhere, probably trying to get into some poor boy’s pants, which means at least Laurent will get some peace when food is brought, because Lazar is the only one that’s capable of talking that much with his mouth full of whatever they’re eating that day. Orlant has disappeared as well.

And then there’s Ancel. Who’s late. Maybe he won’t show, Laurent thinks, until he hears the characteristic footsteps of the man. Except he isn’t alone. 

Berenger is behind him, and though under any other circumstances, Laurent would be delighted to see him, he’d hoped for at least one lunch where he wouldn’t have to talk business. 

It starts off small. Berenger greets everyone, making a much more thorough job of it than Ancel does, which isn’t unusual, and when the entrées are brought he compliments them. But his eye never quite strays away from Laurent. For once, Laurent wishes it was because Berenger is mad at him for letting Ancel sleep around to further their goals. 

They’re on dessert when Berenger asks to talk to him, and Laurent relents. They’re both busy men, anyway, and he won’t have time to set a proper appointment with him later.

“About those papers you sent me the other day,” Berenger starts, immediately on the job. They get in a back and forth for only ten minutes, but it’s intense, and Laurent feels even more bone tired once he’s done, and Berenger is kissing Ancel goodbye, rejoining his carriage.

Somehow, he too wishes for one of those pies, right about now.

**

Nikandros is sick. Not just a small cough, but the full on flu, wheezing with every breath, high with a fever. Damen knows, because Nikandros still came to work, instead of staying home for the day, like the mad man he is. 

“You’re in no fit state to cook anything right now!” Damen admonishes for what feels like the fifth time in as many minutes. “Why did you even come?”

Nikandros clicks his tongue, and immediately regrets it, the motion enough to send a jolt of pain in his throat. “Because if I hadn’t shown up you’d have been worried sick, sending someone to see if I was still alive in an hour, or maybe less,” Nikandros grumbles, his voice low and gritty from exertion.

Damen wants to argue, but he knows Nik is right. So instead, he throws the heaviest blanket they have in his face, and pushes him to sit down. “And don’t come anywhere near the food. Don’t want your miasma falling all over it, no one in town deserves to be that sick.”

“Except me?”

Damen shakes his head, laughing, “Not even you.”

He’s put his first round of dough in the oven when he realizes today is a Thursday, which means it’s pie day. Thankfully, it’s not _the_ pie day, the one where Nikandros makes pies for everyone, but it’s still a pie day, one of the couple days a week he usually delivers his pies to that manor up on the other side of town.

“Shit.”

That startles Nikandros. “What’s got you swearing so early in the morning?” he asks groggily, eyes half closed, slumber close to taking him.

“It’s pie day.”

Silence. And then, “ _Shit_.”

Nikandros tries to rise, presumably to attempt to bake at least the one pie, just for today, but Damen will have none of this. He doesn’t even have to push him around much. Nikandros sways on his feet already, and just one press of Damen on his shoulder, and he’s back on his seat.

“No baking for you today, Nik.” For all that he tries to be reasonable, though, Damen is worried. About his friend, first and foremost, but also about the delivery. He can’t not deliver a pie today, not to the people who have quickly become such faithful clients, not if he wants to keep their patronage. On the other hand, he definitely can’t not deliver a Nikandros pie. They’re obviously in love with the berries’ particular taste, weaved with Nikandros’ magic.

“Stop fretting,” Nikandros groans, five minutes later, in which Damen has not accomplished a thing, except maybe get more stressed.

“But it’s pie day,” he insists, again, like it will make a solution magically appear. 

Frustration evident in his tone, Nikandros lets himself slump down on the bench. “Bake the damn pie yourself then! The snobbish bastards probably aren't even going to notice the difference.” 

Damen disagrees. But it’s not like he has a choice anyway.

His pie is pretty, even though it’s probably the only thing it has going for it. Somehow, pies are the one pastry he was never too good at making. Everything else he’s fine with. But pies were his mother’s dishes. Perhaps that’s why he’ll never be satisfied with his own renditions.

Still, he pours love and happiness in his hands and in the dough, and he spreads the berry jam with efficient moves, and carves the details on top in as fine a hand as he can muster, though he will never be the artist Nikandros is. It makes him late for opening, and people are already queuing behind the front door, but it means that he doesn’t completely hate it, in the end.

The fact that he has to deliver it, though, makes him resent the pie some more. And on the other side of town, even. If it weren’t for the fact that the lady at the butcher shop next door agreed to sell his bread for him for the hour he needs to be closed, he’d have a revolution on his hands by the time he came back.

He puts the little sign he just wrote to warn clients they’ll need to ask their neighbor for their bread for a while, swings his largest satchel on his hip, and puts the pie inside, making sure to tuck it as best as he can. He still can’t run without risking messing up the filling, so he stills himself to a brisk walk, and hates every second of it. The address Nikandros gave him rings a small bell in his mind, but Damen is so preoccupied with his sick friend and how annoyed he is to have to run this errand that he doesn’t notice right away. He only does once the streets grow familiar, after he’s crossed the town center and walked through neighborhoods that have grown richer and richer in wealth, houses growing with them. 

When he sees the manor, it’s like a punch to the gut. He has to stop in his tracks for a minute, if only to breathe. It’s been nearly eight years now, since the accident, and yet it still hurts just thinking of Auguste’s smile.

Air in. Air out. Damen repeats the motion until he can feel his heart isn’t as frantic anymore. He grabs a hold of his bag’s strap. Steels himself. And then he walks through the gate, and into the De Vere’s estate.

Like the library, it has changed without truly changing. The gardens have been tended regularly, and the flower bushes have been changed, colors in different places than he remembers them, but the woods that host most of his memories of the manor are still there, lying quietly beyond the maze of elaborately cut greenery. The outside of the manor must have gotten a fresh coat of paint in the past few years, as well. As for the inside, Damen never much went there. Only once or twice, when he was much younger. He and Auguste had quickly taken to meeting into the woods, or directly in town, escaping the stuffy atmosphere of the halls. 

He wonders, as he walks up the gravel path, who the manor belongs to now. It had become Auguste’s when the boy was only just fifteen, after his parents’ death. And it had only remained his for two more years…

Damen remembers an uncle, and, faintly, a younger brother. Maybe one of those two, then. He never really cared to find out, his retirement from society having happened right after Auguste’s - and his own father’s - death. It had been a lot.

His musings take him to the kitchen’s door Nikandros told him about - door he remembers, because he sneaked through it more than once to grab a snack. He knocks. Hears shuffling feet and animated conversations even before the panel swings open, revealing a man with brown hair cropped short, stubble barely grown. He smiles ravishingly at Damen.

“You’re not the usual delivery guy,” he says, his voice teasing.

He isn’t Damen’s type.

“Apologies. My partner is sick.” He doesn’t elaborate, just takes the pie out of his bag, carefully checking that it’s still in one piece before he rewraps it in its cloth. “Here.”

The man pouts. It is obvious he’s after more conversation, perhaps some banter. Damen knows for a fact Nikandros wouldn’t flirt with him, so he’s not the first one to crush the man’s hopes.

“Lazar!” A woman’s voice booms inside the kitchen. With a glance inside, Damen watches as her petite frame turns to face them, annoyance clear on her young features. “Get your ass back in! The meal isn’t going to cook itself!” 

Everyone around her snickers. Most of them are young, younger than Damen would expect them to be. He thinks he recognizes one woman, probably in her forties, but the rest of the staff appears brand new. Whoever is in charge now, they obviously had quite the turnover.

“Fine,” the man named Lazar sighs. He winks one last time at Damen, “Hope to see you around again.”

The door closes, and once it does, Damen turns around, and walks away from the manor and all its hidden memories. 

“Don’t count too much on it.”

**

The pie isn’t the same.

Laurent - and everyone around the table - knows the pie isn’t the same the moment it is brought. The smell is close, but the patterns are all over the place, the crust not sounding the same as Jord cuts through it. And the magic feels strange.

They don’t say anything, at first. Maybe they had to use different ingredients. Maybe something else happened. Everyone is content with just eating the pie, even if it’s a bit different. Even if they keep side-eyeing each other warily.

Everyone is content, that is, until Laurent takes his first bite.

It’s good. The taste. Not as good as the other pie, but the berry jam has the same flavor, and the crust feels velvety in his mouth. No, the taste isn’t the problem.

The problem. The problem is, that the moment the first taste softens, and the new magic flows through him - a shiver down his tongue, to his stomach, simmering slowly until it enters his blood, and then his heartbeat - Laurent feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

His chair clatters to the floor. He sways on his feet. Jord is immediately by his side, catching him before he falls to the ground. Nicaise’s eyes are wide and scared, and Laurent hates that he is the one putting that look there. 

“Laurent, what’s happening?”

Not “Are you okay?”. Jord knows him too well for that.

Laurent wheezes. He is okay, actually. The warmth is spreading through his body, through his bones, and fast, and it’s making him light headed and bubbly, and he hates it, but he is okay. He isn’t sick. If anything, he hasn’t felt that good in months, maybe years.

The fact that he can’t handle it, though, that’s a problem.

He has to retire to his room, with a few words for his staff to try and reassure them, Jord leaving him only once he’s repeating for the fifth time that he hasn’t been poisoned, and that he shall be down in a few minutes. He just has to let the drunk feeling pass.

It’s frustrating, having no control. His body is so lax he could sink in his bed and fall instantly asleep, though his mind seems so high and out of reach he isn’t sure he would be actually sleeping. The magic thrums through him heavily, like a heartbeat. Weirdly, it feels like home, like a set of arms embracing him, and Laurent hates himself for loving it, hates that he craves the comfort of something, someone so foreign.

Whoever that magic belongs to, he needs to find them. 

**

Two hours later, the entrance bell of the bakery jingles.

Damen is all alone in the shop. Nikandros has finally gone home, the sickness crushing him enough for him to admit defeat and go rest. He complained all the way out of the back of the building, sounding half drunk, and Damen would have escorted him home if said home wasn’t just up the street. 

So the bell clangs, and the door opens, and there are furious footsteps on the ground, and then…

“You did not deliver the pie we ordered from you.”

Those eyes. Somehow, it’s the eyes that stick. When he gazed at them a few days ago, he was so absorbed in their fathomless depth, in their raw emotions, that it didn’t strike him. So many people have blue eyes.

But then there’s the hair, also. The way the man carries himself. The jaw is similar, as well. Maybe not as square as Auguste’s had been. The angles on this man’s face are sharper, so much so that Damen fears he might cut himself if he were to brush against his skin.

He barely registers the dissatisfied voice, the shivers the low rumble sends down his spine. The man is staring straight at him, obviously furious and having very much seen through Damen’s subterfuge. Damen gulps.

“You’re Auguste’s brother.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

The man freezes. Or tries to, anyway. There’s a weird stumble to his steps, and he has to catch himself on the counter, blinking furiously. His face, when he looks back up at Damen, is even paler than it was before.

“Who…”

 _Shit_. Shit shit shit. Damen does not want to blow his cover today. The last thing he needs is the De Vere kid - who isn’t a kid anymore, by all the gods of course Damen would fall for his dead’s friend brother, he is so cursed, Auguste is totally going to come back and haunt him now - figuring out who he is.

“I apologize,” he babbles, reminiscent of their last encounter. “My partner is sick, but insisted on a pie being delivered to you today. I am deeply sorry if it did not meet your expectations, and am ready to refund you if need be, or provide another pie free of charge once my partner is back on his feet…”

A hand, slammed against the counter. Words, clearly enunciated. “Who. Are. You?”

Damen’s mouth hangs open. He can’t answer that. The man looks like he wants to disembowel him, and Damen likes his intestines where they are, truly. 

Thankfully, he’s prevented from coming up with a horrible lie, one that he would never have gotten away with, by the door opening again, the music of the bell ringing in the silent shop. The new client isn’t a regular, though Damen recognizes the man’s face from somewhere. He greets him with a smile, trying to escape the threatening aura of Auguste’s brother. The man is standing very still next to the counter, but at least he isn’t all up in Damen’s face anymore.

He packs the bread for the man as slowly as he possibly can without making him suspicious. He can feel a glare at the back of his head, insistent, until another jingle rises in the shop. The early afternoon rush is starting, and Damen couldn’t be more thankful.

A sigh escapes him as he turns to his client. Auguste’s brother notices. He also seems to notice the queue that’s forming in the shop, people looking at him strangely, wondering what someone in such fine clothes is doing in a little bakery, standing there, glaring daggers at their baker. 

He takes the hint. Though Auguste’s brother looks displeased still, he uncrosses his arms, sends one last look Damen’s way, and turns on his heels. 

Damen has never breathed better than when that man got out of the bakery.

“Trouble?” one of the patrons asks, protective.

Damen shakes his head. Though it is trouble. Trouble for his heart, at least.

**

 _Damianos of Akielos_. It took Laurent less than an hour after he’d come back from the bakery to piece the puzzle together. 

He hadn’t seen the man much when he and Auguste were going on adventures together. Though he loved his brother, he wasn’t much interested in his brother’s friends, especially since they deprived him of meaningful time with Auguste. Books were better companions in these times, anyway.

But now that he forces himself to think about it, to relive memories he suppressed all these years, no matter how painful, he can remember him. The curly brown hair. The large smile and larger laugh. He and Auguste had been close. And then Auguste had died, Damianos’ father had died, and Laurent’s uncle had happened. Laurent had never seen him again, or tried to contact him. It seemed like they both had a lot to deal with in those years.

To think that the heir of the Akielos family would be a baker now, though. A very good one. But a baker still. What happened? Did he lose his fortune? Laurent rummages through some of his papers. No, that couldn’t be possible. The estate the older bastard of Akielos invited him to definitely isn’t the main house of Akielos, and Damianos didn’t look like a man who lost everything.

If anything, he’d looked… at peace.

_How?_

Laurent paces in his study, trying to make sense of everything. Damianos’ reconversion as a baker, the fact that they found each other not once, but twice, in only a few weeks, the pie… Was this really Damianos’ magic? Laurent eyes the piece of pie he asked to have brought up earlier warily. Hungrily.

Sparks. Magics colliding. Laurent clenches his jaw. He takes another bite of the pie.

Sure enough, the feeling is there again. It’s less violent this time, perhaps because he expects it. His heartbeat quickens, his head grows light, his sharp mind gets jumbled and yet more focused at the same time.

For someone so in love with staying in control, it’s surprising how much Laurent enjoys being forced to let go by another man’s magic.

Faintly, he thinks “Damianos will be my undoing”.

**

“Nik!”

Damen pushes his friend’s shoulder once. Twice. He knows he should let Nikandros sleep, what with him being sick and all, but Damen has news. Life-altering news.

“Nik!” he tries again, still to no avail.

He shakes him harder, “ _Nikandros!_ ” he booms, voice resonating in the little house, finally snatching his friend away from slumber.

A groan. Nikandros rolls on his back, throwing an arm over his head. His voice is still groggy with both sleep and sickness, but his face has gained back some color, at least. “What, you absolute bastard?”

“I’m in trouble.”

Nikandros sits up almost instantly, giving himself whiplash and what must be a copious headache, and Damen winces. Ho, how he loves his far too supporting friend.

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind that isn’t life-threatening, now please, lie back down.”

Nikandros complies, resting his back on his pillows, with renewed groaning. He then levels a stare at Damen, arms crossed.

“I met Auguste’s brother.”

If Nikandros’ face had gone back to a healthy complexion earlier, it is now back to deathly pale, mouth hanging open. “You what?”

Damen’s best friend knows all about Auguste. Damen’s friendship with Nikandros dates back earlier than he can remember, which means NIkandros was there to witness the budding friendship with Auguste, one he never joined, for both lack of status and lack of interest, but still copiously envied. He was there, as well, to pick Damen up, when both his friend and his father disappeared in such quick succession. If there had been one sturdy pillar in Damen’s life, it had been Nikandros.

“The manor you’ve been making special deliveries to? That’s the De Vere manor, Nik.”

No words. There are truly no words out of his friend’s mouth. He seems to be thinking, though Damen knows not about what. Not until Nikandros speaks next.

“I never met the owner,” he says, thoughtful.

“Neither did I, in the moment. It turns out, though, that Auguste’s brother is far less dense than you thought he’d be.” As he should, Damen thinks, but he doesn’t speak it out. “He very much understood the pie wasn’t the same as their usual, and somehow, decided to come, in person, to complain about it.”

Another grunt. Nikandros may have decided this is too much for him, and completely relinquished words. Or he’s just that annoyed with Damen and his shenanigans. “Please tell me you didn’t antagonize Auguste’s brother, and one of our best clients these past few weeks.”

Damen shakes his head. “I didn’t. I apologized, offered a refund.”

Lowering his hand from where it had gone to massage his temples, Nikandros stares. “Then what did you do?”

“I… may have let slip that I recognized him. As Auguste’s brother.”

“ _And?_ ”

“And he very furiously demanded to know who I am.”

Nikandros blanches, again. Because he’s one of the very few that know of the double life Damen is leading. If someone else were to find out the heir of the Akielos estate was baking bread in a tiny bakery in town, and leaked it to the people and the press, there would be uproar. And they definitely do not want that. 

“And…?” Nikandros asks, again, much more cautious this time.

“And rush hour started precisely before I could make a fool of myself trying to lie about it, and Auguste’s brother left.”

With a sigh, Nikandros falls back on his cushions, eyes closed. “Thank all the gods for safeguarding your clueless ass, Damianos of Akielos.”

Silence. 

Without fail, Nikandros opens his eyes again, and pierces straight through Damen’s soul.

“This might not be the main problem,” Damen confesses, his voice so small it might as well be a whisper.

“And what, pray tell, might be the main problem?”

Damen can see that Nikandros is growing frustrated now, and he knows that frustration will soon turn into anger, with reason. He might as well accelerate the process as much as he can. Perhaps he will get out of it alive.

“I may or may not have a huge crush on Auguste’s brother.”

Nikandros stares. And stares. And stares. And then he throws his hands into the air, and howls. “How? Just HOW? You met him once, Damen, and he gave you a verbal lashing!”

“Actually… it wasn’t the first time we met,” Damen says, folding slightly on himself.

“Oh, you have got to be messing with me. When?”

He might as well come clean with it. With a sigh, Damen recounts the events that unfolded at the library, trying to brush over the fact that he’d felt like a maiden in front of a knight, with how awestruck he had been at Auguste’s brother’s appearance.

Nikandros, as usual, can see right through him.

“With what I know of Auguste, can I safely assume his brother is just as blond-haired, blue-eyed as the man himself had been?” he asks, judgment so heavy in his voice it’s leaking inside the room.

Damen nods, sheepish.

“Gods, you and your type!” Nikandros is moving so much he must feel dizzy, a hand going to his temple, a grimace on his face. Damen wants to rush and help, but he knows that right now, Nikandros needs space. “First Jokaste, now this. You can’t just court every blond in a fifty miles radius, Damen.”

But he doesn’t want to. He never has. Sure, Jokaste had been a wet dream come true, with her long, flowing hair, her beautiful curves, her sardonic smile. She’d been everything he ever desired, and she had even pretended he was everything she desired, for a while. But the mirage had soon faded. Now, she is happy with Kastor, and Damen is happy for her.

Auguste’s brother, though… Damen can’t deny he is the best looking person Damen has laid eyes on in quite a while. But it isn’t just that. There is a pull to him, something visceral, entrapping Damen. And it doesn’t help that the man is clearly very smart and articulate. And completely out of Damen’s league.

“I’m screwed,” he admits, head hanging low.

“Yes, you are,” Nikandros confirms. He sounds weary. Tired.

When Damen looks back at him, Nikandros’ eyes are filled with so many different emotions. Sorry for his best friend is the first one Damen identifies, and it hurts a little bit, but the compassion there quickly overpowers everything else. Frustrated. Sick. Supportive. That one hits the hardest.

“This is bad,” they both say, at the same time. They look at each other. And burst out laughing, like back when they were kids and they had no care in the world. Damen falls back on the other side of Nikandros’ bed, ribs shaking, cheeks aching. 

If anything, at least, he’ll always have Nikandros.

*

The days go by, slowly. Nikandros isn’t sick anymore, which means they can get back to their usual routine, and Damen doesn’t have to handle any more deliveries. Not that he’d risk running into Auguste’s brother again, anyway. After the last pie, they stopped ordering. Both Nikandros and him are sad that they lost such good clients, but they aren’t surprised, either.

It’s been a bit more than a week, which means it’s Monday, and they can both enjoy a much needed day off. Nikandros tells him he will use that time to catch up on his finances, as well as some of his reading, and though Damen wishes he could do the very same thing - there are still recipes in the cookbook he has yet to try - he also really needs to buy new clothes, and to clean his place. So once his house is in order, he pockets a purse of his allowance, and goes out.

He still has a hard time thinking of the money as his, though it is. One of his father’s old work partners handles most of the Akielos finances for him, though Damen still supervises everything, and makes the most important decisions. It works well.

The town is busy on Mondays. Everyone except him is going back to work, city bustling with sounds and smells, filled to the brim with people. In the middle of the masses, Damen is just one more anonymous. He enjoys it that way.

He enters his usual tailor with a swing in his step. Though his work doesn’t allow him to wear too fine clothes, he still enjoys going to a more expensive tailor. Just because the cut has to be simple, doesn’t mean he can’t have it made in sturdy fabric. 

The usual side eyes welcome him. Not from the shop keepers, of course, who have grown used to him over the years. The other customers, though, always seem surprised to see Damen, the baker, enter their haven of shopping. He could care less what they think. He isn’t here to gossip with them, anyway. He has clothes he needs made.

One of the women working the shop takes his measurements only to make sure they haven’t changed much from last time. Damen gets chastised when she pencils down that his arm muscles have grown, again, which means they’ll have to alter the fit of his nice coats if he wants them to fall in the right places. Again. Damen smiles. He knows the complaints are just a way of teasing him. It’s not like anyone at the shop is going to be truly annoyed by extra work, especially with how much he pays them.

He’s selecting a brocade for a new jacket when his eyes catch a glimpse of a young man with soft brown hair, having his measurements taken.

Damen stops.

It takes him a minute to decide on his approach. First, he finishes selecting his fabric - the brocade, and a linen for a new work shirt - because the man that’s helping him definitely doesn’t not need his time wasted waiting for Damen. Then, he lets himself observe. The kid is more relaxed than he’d been when asking for the pie at Damen’s bakery. It’s obvious he’s in his element. He isn’t quite smiling, but at least he isn’t frowning, which Damen would have bet was his default expression.

He wonders, faintly, who this adolescent is. He doesn’t remember Auguste having another younger brother, and though the kid’s blue eyes are striking, he doesn’t exactly look like the De Vere siblings. A cousin, perhaps? Whoever he is, it seems he is at home in the De Vere estate. Damen is glad to know that, after all this time, there’s still life in the manor. Auguste would have wanted it that way.

In his musings, he forgets to pay attention to his surroundings. He’s moving his fingers on a random fabric, appreciating its grain, when he notices the adolescent isn’t where he was a second ago. He turns around, searching for him, only to find the kid right at his back, menacing frown back on his features. And, if the looming man a few feet away - Damen seems to recall him faintly ; he’s around his own age, hair dark, face closed, impeccable posture - the kid isn’t alone this time. 

“What do you want?” the kid seethes.

Damen doesn’t really know how to answer that. What does he want? There’s a myriad of answers going through his mind, some pure dreams, others more attainable. But he has none that will satisfy this kid.

The adolescent doesn’t need an answer to his question anyway. He pushes a finger against Damen’s chest, and though Damen has no doubt it’s supposed to be menacing, the sheer disproportion between himself and the kid is enough to make it veer toward comical. He doesn’t quite dare laugh, though. Whoever the man accompanying the young and brash adolescent is, he has a sword by his side, and he seems like the kind of person who knows how to use it.

“If you so much as come near Laurent again, trust me, I will find a way to make you pay,” the kid threatens.

All Damen hears is the name. _Laurent_. 

Suddenly, memories flow back in. Most he locked away the moment Auguste passed. The name is there as well. Said with fondness, a smile on a bright face. It hurts a bit. Not as much as Damen thought it would.

Damen regards the kid with placidness, and nods. He doesn’t plan on going back to the De Vere manor, anyway. Auguste’s brother - Laurent - made it clear he didn’t bear the kindest of feelings for Damen or the trick he pulled, and he isn’t the kind of man to chase after what he knows he cannot have. 

Another glare, leveled his way. Then the kid scoffs, and pushes past him and through the front door.

“Nicaise, wait!” The guardian’s composure drops as he hurries after his charge. Well, that’s two names in a row now. First Laurent. Now Nicaise. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but still, Damen pulls the knowledge that he is one step closer to Laurent to his chest, and holds it there for a moment. Basks in the warmth. It will fade, tomorrow.

**

Berenger doesn’t manage to broker the deal he hoped he would. Laurent knows that the moment his friend enters the office. Berenger was never good at putting on a mask, never near good enough to fool most nobles, and definitely not good enough to fool Laurent, of all people. His attempt at hiding his frustration thus fails miserably.

“What happened?” Laurent asks without preamble. 

With a sigh, Berenger sits. “Countess Halvik was thankful for your proposal, but she says she is in no position to broker new deals at the moment.”

“You did tell her Charls is the most reliable cloth merchant I have ever known, right?”

“I did. But it seems having to import her fabric all the way from Marlas proved too much of an inconvenience for her.”

Laurent shakes his head. Charls _is_ the most reliable cloth merchant he has ever known, on top of being a truly gifted tailor, and a close friend. Signing that deal with Halvik is essential, if not for his friend’s trade, at least to strengthen the bonds between his house and hers, allowing him an easier entrance to the Vaskian market. He can’t give up on that treaty.

A long silence stretches between them. Fortunately, Berenger isn’t the most eager conversationalist, which gives Laurent ample time to think through his strategy. The solution he comes up with isn’t the one he likes most - he loathes having to send partners away for long journeys - but he knows he has to prove his investment to Halvik somehow, if he truly wants her to entertain a partnership.

“Send Charls directly to her,” he sighs, resigned. “He’ll find the words to convince her.”

Berenger nods, already rising to accomplish his mission.

“Before you leave,” Laurent stops him. He opens the drawer to his left, rifles through it for a while. “Please, have Charls give her this, as a token of my gratitude for receiving him, and hearing my proposal again.”

The fountain pen is a true delicacy. As they are new inventions, they are still incredibly rare to come by. But this one isn’t only one of a few. It is a true work of art, the handle made out of a reflective crystal, polished into a spiral, ending with the metallic point etched onto it. The ink well is cut inside the crystal tubing, meaning whatever ink the owner chooses to use, it will show through, the color spreading beautifully when light hits the pen. 

Berenger stares at it for a while, eyes wide. Laurent uses that time to envelop the pen in the case he had made for it, and searches through his drawer some more, until he finds the vial he is looking for. It looks like plain, simple blue ink, though it isn’t. There is a subtle violet sheen to it, due to the added presence of blood to the mixture. Laurent’s blood.

Though the magic can’t be felt through the vial, Laurent knows it is there. Potent. Ready to be used.

“Tell Charls to tell her to use this ink sparingly. It has… unique properties.”

True meaning sinks in quickly in Berenger’s mind, and his eyes widen some more, if it is even possible. He takes the case and the vial with the utmost reverence, as though it is a gift from the Gods. With one last look for Laurent, who nods, to reassure him, he’s off.

Slumping in his chair, Laurent exhales. 

And like the past few days, he finds his mind drifting. To a certain someone, to be exact.

He’d stopped trying to push the thoughts away days ago. It had only seemed to increase their persistence. Now, instead, he welcomes them, lets the painful reminders wash over him and leave. Most days, the souvenir of Auguste’s death is just a pinch to his heart, and then he can move on to Damianos. To annoyance and frustration and some longing he can’t quite decide what to do with.

Other days, he’s pierced all the way through by memories, quartered on the shrine of his own suffering. It’s not just Auguste’s death, though it pulls heavily at his heart all the same. It’s also, most painfully, the days and months that followed.

Thinking about his uncle always leaves a foul taste in his mouth. The way Laurent had been so young still, but had needed to fight with all his might to prevent the estate and fortune from falling into the man’s hands. The way it had taken him years, and constant support and help from his staff as well as outsiders. The way it had taken longer for him still, to wrangle Nicaise out of his uncle’s iron fist.

The taste of vomit fills his mouth, and Laurent takes a long, hard breath to will it away. All this had ended. His uncle was far away. He couldn’t take anything from him, from them anymore.

But now, Laurent needs to clean his palate.

The kitchens are mostly empty in the middle of the afternoon, only one of the newest employees, a young, feisty girl, tending to the stew for tonight. She greets Laurent with a bright smile, though a blush creeps up her cheeks when he replies in kind. Wandering around, he tries to find something to soothe his ache. He craves sugar right now, but there isn’t much that could satisfy him.

Actually, he knows exactly what would satisfy him. But he’d rather die than admit it to himself, much less anyone else.

He crushes the mere recollection of the pie the moment it tries to surface, concentrating instead on where he is and what he is doing now. Some biscuits are lying on a plate, probably baked for the older staff’s children. Laurent takes one and bites into it with renewed vigor. It is savory, though it does not compare to what he truly seeks. 

Not for the first time this day, or even this week, he finds himself cursing Damianos, his magical face, and his magical food.

**

Kastor and Jokaste’s party is tonight, and somehow, it’s Damen who finds himself full of jitters.

He doesn’t even know why. It’s not like he hasn’t seen his brother or Jokaste in that long - he saw them only two months or so ago - and he already knows what the announcement will be about. And sure, he hasn’t been amongst his fellow nobles in quite some time, but he isn’t even requested to make a real appearance at the party. He could hang around on the first floor, watching the whole thing unfold from over the railings, hidden away, and neither his brother nor his sister in law would fault him for it.

But Damen isn’t sure he wants to hide tonight. All that’s happened this past few weeks… it has brought some much needed reflection for him. About what he wants in life. And though he loves his bakery, and wouldn’t abandon it for all the money in the world, Damen thinks he’s ready now. Ready to step back into his role. Into his power. And into the responsibilities that come with it.

He and Nikandros have had long conversations about this for the past few days. What it implies for the bakery. The fact that it might not be quite the safe haven it was, when everyone and their grandfather hears it is being tended by the Akielos heir. They aren’t sure they’ll mind. They have already established their faithful customers, and those people’s habits won’t change. They might pry a bit more, or try and tease a few answers about his life out of Damen, but he knows mostly, they’ll be harmless. The new customers, the ones attracted by fame… they’ll have to deal with one by one. They can handle it. And maybe the promotion will allow them to extend their business as well, like they’ve been wanting to without ever hoping too much for the past couple of years. 

“You’ll do great,” Nikandros reassures him for what must be the hundredth time, patting the creasing on Damen’s shoulder down. His new jacket fits him like a glove. So why does he feel like he can’t breathe?

“I’m just… afraid I’ll be overwhelmed.” The admission costs him. Damen has always prided himself with being able to handle anything. And yet, right now, he feels like a fish out of water.

Nikandros chuckles. “Trust me, Kastor won’t let you steal the attention away from him. I bet he’ll barely let you have your moment for five minutes after you’ve entered, before he decides it’s time to focus back on him, and finally announces that baby.”

That does draw a smile out of Damen. “You’re not wrong.”

“You might even say I’m right.” He fixes Damen’s neckerchief, and surveys the look he helped put together with pride in his eyes. “And if you feel too chicken to stay, you know you can always retire early. You can come back here or to your place, or stay at Kastor’s, hidden in a room,” he laughs, probably envisioning the very thing he’s describing.

“Or I could visit the estate.”

Nikandros’ smile drops, if only for a minute. They don’t talk much about the estate. The last time they went there, Nikandros had to drag a sobbing Damen out through the gates, and back to Marlas. It had taken days for him to feel like himself again after that.

“Or you could visit the estate,” Nikandros repeats, unsure. 

A memory of his mother flashes into his mind, unbridled. She’s standing in the middle of the gardens, her gardens, surrounded by flower bushes, all in bloom, the myriad of colors reflecting on her white gown, her smile as bright as the sun. And, for the first time in forever - perhaps the first time ever - it doesn’t hurt. She’s just… there, in his mind. And though he does ache, he’s also thankful that he can still picture her in crisp details easily.

He has to leave early. The journey down to Kastor’s estate takes a couple of hours, and he wants to get there earlier than the other guests, so he can say hello, and get settled, without the presence of strangers looming over him. His half-brother is the first one to greet him, right as Damen enters the manor, with a pat on Damen’s back and a foolish smile on his face. 

Damen responds with a bone crushing hug. “Congratulations, brother.”

“Thanks,” Kastor walks him into a parlor that’s already been decorated for tonight’s festivities. Jokaste is directing some of the staff putting on the finishing touches, and though he knows it’s rude, Damen’s eyes immediately get drawn to her belly. The clothes she has chosen hide her state for now, though if he concentrates, he believes he can make out the shape of a small bump.

“Damen!” she exclaims when her eyes land on him. Her smile isn’t as warm as Kastor’s, but Jokaste has always been more of a cold person, even without their shared history. Damen doesn’t fault her for it.

He embraces her as he’d done his brother, and lays a kiss on the crown of her head, noticing the discreet blush it draws out of her cheeks. “Congratulations to you as well, Jokaste. My best wishes are with you and the baby.”

She pats his arm, embarrassed. “Thank you. Though I’m sure with an uncle like you, that baby will get in all sorts of trouble,” she teases.

Damen scoffs. “I’d never dare!” He then adds, with a soft smile, “You know I’m more of the caring uncle type anyway.”

She laughs and nods, though her eyes do still warn him against trying anything funny once her son or daughter is born. Damen will surely keep the threat in mind.

The halls are empty, but they won’t be for much longer. He leaves Kastor and Jokaste to finish their preparations, and walks up to the room they’ve arranged for him. It’s his usual, with a tiny amount of his stuff stocked into the closet. He moved what he didn’t need out of the main estate, and into Kastor’s, both because of practicality, and because he knew setting foot in the estate would be a challenge he didn’t want to face every time he needed one item or another.

He can hear when the guests start streaming in. Peeking behind the blinds, he sees carriages lining up the main path, couples stepping out of them in their best attire. His blood chills. It’s been so long…

It takes all of his willpower, and a full hour - longer than he meant to - for him to gather his courage, and head outside of his room. Upstairs, all is quiet. The space is off limits, and the staff made sure no one would trespass. One of the maid greets Damen as he makes his way down some back stairs, trying to avoid the main entrance and the plethora of nobles he knows will immediately recognize him, and jump on him like ravenous predators.

He doesn’t notice the person standing next to the doors leading to the ballroom, at first. They’re shadowed by an alcove, and Damen is so focused on what is about to happen, hands shaking, saliva stuck in his throat, that the silhouette completely escapes him. The opposite cannot be said, however.

“Damianos of Akielos.”

The voice, he recognizes instantly. He turns, and, whiteout surprise, is met with a piercing gaze and a snicker.

Laurent De Vere.

“How…” he means to ask.

Auguste’s brother cuts him with a wave of his hand before he can even finish, drawing himself out of the shadows he was hiding in, the light of the ballroom giving his blond hair golden hues. He looks just as beautiful as he did at the bakery, or the library. Damen hates it just as much as he loves it. 

“I put together who you were shortly after the bakery… incident,” he says like it’s no big deal. Damen knew he was smart. He hates when he’s right, sometimes. “Remembered you faintly, from when you came to the manor.”

 _From when you were with Auguste_ , is left unsaid. Perhaps it’s better, for both of their sanities. 

Damen means to stay. To chat, perhaps, with Laurent. He doesn’t know about what exactly. Laurent’s dead brother, though a common subject, probably isn’t the best one, but he’s sure they can find something, anything. But the crowd packed in the room next door is moving around, tremors going through indicating Kastor and Jokaste have made their appearance, and heads are turning Damen’s way, now that he’s stuck in the doorway. Whispers are being born right this instant, traveling faster than any news has ever traveled before.

With a gulp, and one last look at Laurent, he steps into the light.

There are a few gasps. Definitely more than a few looks. Surprise is on most faces, quickly turning into either smugness or annoyance, as Damen makes his way through the people, with greetings thrown to the ones he remembers best. He joins Kastor and Jokaste on the dais that’s been specifically installed for tonight. His half-brother can’t quite hide his concern when Damen steps next to him, nor can Damen quite reassure him with his wobbly smile, his whole attire suddenly feeling very, very stuffy.

Thankfully, and as Nikandros and himself devised, Kastor and Jokaste advance on the dais hand in hand. They first greet their guests, and thank them for accepting their invitation. And then, comes the announcement.

“It is a secret to no one that my wife and I have been praying to the gods to grant us the gift of parenthood for a while,” Kastor says, and immediately the whispers swell. He needn’t say more for everyone to understand, especially with the way Jokaste’s dress hugs her body, making her prominent belly obvious, but Damen knows Kastor delights in the flourishes of his plan. “Our calls have for a long time remained unanswered. But tonight, we are very pleased to inform all of you, our closest friends,” and that’s definitely an exaggeration. Some of the people here are barely acquaintances. Some, Damen knows for a fact, Kastor absolutely loathes. Kastor always had a sense of spectacle, though. “… that Jokaste, my dearest wife,” Kastor continues, turning his head to the woman, a fond, genuine smile on his lips, “is finally expecting.”

The crowd roars. At that very second, there isn’t one person in the entire swarm of guests that isn’t either cheering them on, or gossiping about the whole affair. Damen wishes he could sigh, but that would probably be interpreted badly, and he doesn’t want a scandal on his hands, either tonight, or ever, really. 

Kastor and Jokaste laugh and whoop, and then they hug each other, and then Damen, and it’s a grand celebration, alcohol already flowing, food filling eager stomachs. A true party, in honor of the couple and their future baby.

Damen has barely been off the dais for all of two seconds before he gets assaulted by a couple of guests.

“Damianos,” one of them cheers, raising his drink to him. Damen has no idea who the man is, no matter how much he dregs up his memories of old parties. This one must be new. Which means he has no business being this casual with him. “It’s been a long time! Where have you been?”

Smiling a smile he knows doesn’t reach his eyes, Damen moves, slowly, stepping around the young men without looking like he is. “Here and there,” he answers. The men’s expressions close off at the non answer, but he couldn’t care less. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” though he isn’t, not really, “but I have friends I haven’t been able to catch up with quite yet. If you’ll excuse me.” That, also, is a plain lie. But at least he was polite about it.

He skirts the edges of the hall in the hopes of drawing less attention to himself, to no avail. Every couple of steps a new guest springs up to greet him, ask about his situation. Most men want to know where he’s been, what he’s been doing with his money. Most women want to know if he’s found his significant other, or is still otherwise available. Sometimes there’s the occasional mix up, with a man coming on a bit too strong, or a woman trying to mask her questions about his estate and fortune behind small talk. He’d almost welcome them, if he weren’t tired of the lies and deceptions after only five minutes.

Finally, a friendly face. Or more like a friendly voice. Damen recognizes the laugh before the body it is attached to appears in his peripheral vision, and a smile splits his face in two. He means to surprise the man with a sneak attack - he won’t tackle him to the floor or anything, but he at least hopes to scare him - but his target turns in his direction before he can so much as take another step.

“Damianos of Akielos!” the grave voice rings in the room, making heads turn, but Damen doesn’t care as much anymore.

Propriety be damned, Makedon takes him into his arms, folding him against his chest so hard Damen is sure at least one of his ribs fractures. They’re both laughing delighted in each other’s presence.

“I thought you were dead, son,” Makedon growls, pushing a glass of strong griva in Damen’s hand. “No news! For years! Did you think about what you were doing to my poor heart?”

Damen shrugs. “You know I’m too resilient to die without making waves. You’d have heard about me in the paper, at least.”

Another laugh, full bellied, making Makedon’s shoulders spasm. “That’s my boy! I missed you, Damianos. Don’t disappear on me again, will you?”

With a shake of his head and a smile at the corner of his lips, Damen nudges the man’s shoulder, “Can’t make any promises.”

“Well, at least you’re here tonight,” Makedon moves around the ballroom, dragging Damen in with his mere charisma, without having to ever ask him to follow. Damen can’t believe the man is only a baron. With his manners and his smarts, he should have landed himself a duchess by now. “A couple of your old friends are here as well, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see you.”

He’s right. And the delight is shared. When Damen sees Erasmus, laced in white and gold, angelic smile on his lips, Damen’s heart immediately softens. He expects Kallias to be the one drawing that smile out of the young man, but though his other friend is here, the man Erasmus is currently talking with is older, with paler skin but darker hair. Damen doesn’t know him. 

Kallias notices him first, and moves around to poke Erasmus in his side, with a discreet point of his chin in Damen’s direction. The trio’s eyes focus on him.

“Damianos!”

Though Makedon’s greeting was very warm indeed, Damen can’t help but feel his heart warm at Erasmus’. The smile on the young man’s face spreads so wide, eyes twinkling, but he doesn’t dare make a move. It’s endearing. Everything about Erasmus is.

Smoothly, Damen moves to them, Makedon in his footsteps. He picks up Erasmus’ hands, and kisses it gently, with a hint of a teasing grin, relishing in the blush that creeps up the man’s cheeks. “Lord Erasmus. It’s always a pleasure.” Beside him, he hears Kallias scoff. What he doesn’t expect, however, is the somber gaze the other man befalls onto him. It isn’t menacing yet, but still, it issues a warning. 

“Lord Kallias,” Damen moves on with his greetings. Kallias, though he pretends to be disturbed by Damen’s sudden reappearance, is quick to forgive him for both his lack of propriety when saluting Erasmus, and for the months without news. They exchange small pleasantries, while Makedon chatters away with Erasmus.

Finally, he turns to the third man. “And you are?”

He realizes the rudeness of his phrasing once the words are out of his mouth, but he can’t quite bring himself to apologize for them. This man seems obviously quite close with Erasmus, and though Damen hasn’t been the best of friends these past few years, Erasmus still very much is his friend, and he won’t let anyone untrustworthy near so pure a soul.

“Ha, this is…” Erasmus rushes to introduce them, obviously having gathered the tension, but the man cuts him, gently, sending a genuine smile the young man’s way.

“My name is Torveld. I am one of Earl De Vere’s acquaintances, and a friend of Erasmus.”

The way he insists on the word _friend_ makes Damen frown. He glances at Kallias, who shrugs, with a grin at the corner of his lips, and then at Erasmus himself, whose furious blush makes him as easy to read as a book. He has to hold in a sigh. Much has happened since he last was in society, it seems. 

He makes an effort to soften his expression, and schools his features into a nice, genuine smile.

“Then it is my pleasure to meet you, Lord Torveld. I am Damianos, Earl of Akielos, as you might have guessed.”

“That I did.”

With the worst of the confrontation over, the mood immediately lifts, helped by Makedon putting drinks in the hands of everyone around him. It turns out Torveld is a nice enough person. Always taking care not to stray too far away from Erasmus, preventing him from getting lost, or simply pushed around by inebriated nobles. If anything, it is plain that he truly cares for the young man, so Damen will let it rest, for now.

Others try to approach them - and by them, they mostly try to approach Damen, no doubt to ask more questions still - but they get deflected easily enough by Makedon, his big gestures, and his bigger laugh. Those that are bold enough to try then realize that Damen is otherwise engaged, and does not, in fact, plan on satisfying their curiosity tonight. All in all, the five of them make quite a great team. 

An hour passes thus, Erasmus, Torveld and Kallias eventually moving on, taking turns dancing a waltz or two, and Makedon keeping a supply of drinks on hand, though Damen is only on his second drink, and doesn’t plan on getting wasted. He’ll need all his mental capacities to survive this night.

A tingling sensation creeps up the back of his neck, after a while. It starts, once, then stops. Starts again, stronger, and this time it sends shivers down his neck as well. He turns around, expecting to find someone glaring at him, perhaps. Instead, there’s Laurent De Vere, paces away, smiling at a noblewoman, sharing what seems like confidence with her.

Instead of the subtle goosebumps, it’s anger that crawls up his neck next. He tamps it down immediately, recognizing it for what it is, a primal urge, one he has no right to have. Still, he can’t quite help the sourness in his throat on his next gulp. He’s all but forgotten about Makedon next to him, who either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, monologuing on.

His eyes stay on Laurent. He isn’t being subtle, but he doubts anyone will notice, on the other side of the room. That’s how he observes Laurent leaving his drink for all of two seconds on a side table, and leaning closer to whisper in the woman’s ear - and there is that weird sensation again, like nails scratching down his back, his jaw locking under the weird, but not unpleasant, feeling - before a hand reaches over that drink, and pours something in it.

Stunned, Damen freezes. And then he moves. But he’s too late, already. Laurent has brought the drink back to his lips, without caring for where it has been, or if someone tampered with it. And he drinks.

Suddenly, the other side of the room feels like an ocean away. Still, Damen dives.

**

Laurent isn’t having much luck tonight. First, he stumbles upon Damianos, completely by accident. He planned for the grand reveal to be much more dramatic, with maybe some accusations, or flaming questions. Instead, the look of pure confusion - and of grief, when Laurent mentioned Auguste - in Damianos’ eyes was enough for him to lay all of his complaints to rest.

It helped that Damianos looked positively ravishing in his green velvet brocade, and that he seemed just as hypnotized with Laurent as Laurent was with him. Though his investigation would have to wait a bit longer. Damianos had a grand entrance to make.

Kastor and Jokaste’s announcement was an affair in awkwardness, half the guests already knowing of Jokaste’s predicament and feigning surprise. The gossip had been delightful, however, and Laurent spent the better first part of the evening gathering rumors and whispers that he’s sure he’ll be able to use later on. But since he had to change his target from his hosts - robbing Damianos’ half-brother did not seem a great plan for very long, considering he planned on having at least a couple more conversations with the man - to other guests a week earlier, he moved on from the gossips early enough.

The Marchioness he has in his sight is a rich woman married to an even richer man, both of whom are delighted in basking in their own money, and not giving a cent away to charities, or do any kind of good deeds with their fortunes, really. So the plan is simple. Torveld would use his early evening to lay the trap, meaning he would talk to both Marquess and Marchioness about good investments, without airing out the fact that they were mostly covers or fake enterprises that’d profit them very little, but poorer people a great deal. Then Laurent would sweep in, much later, and talk to whoever was least immune to his charms, suggesting what an amazing idea it would be for them to lend some of their money to such endeavors. 

Except he must have misjudged them. Because the Marchioness, though very much laughing or smiling every time he whispers in her ear, doesn’t seem any closer to investing any money than before he tried to compel her. It’s frustrating, really. For the first time, someone is immune to his magic, and he doesn’t know why.

He takes a raging gulp out of his cup, making sure to mask any expression of his annoyance, smiling placidly at the woman. She, however, only seems to pay attention to his drink. Maybe he should have offered it to her first?

Understanding downs on him only after the liquid is making its way down to his stomach. There’s a tinge of something that wasn’t there before, a trace of magic, a spike as it splashes against his palate and…

 _Oh no_.

Laurent’s been drugged. Worse, he seems to have been magically drugged. Though his attacker - and he suspects the Marquess, seeing as the Marchioness looks positively delighted, as his own vision blurs - must not know of Laurent’s weakness for any magic that isn’t his own, the fact that the man used some to make the drug more potent means Laurent is in serious trouble. He’s ready to bet whatever this is is already in his system, considering he can’t feel his fingers anymore. And yep, that’s his cup, falling to the floor, exploding in a million shards. He’s swaying on his feet, but the Marchioness is there, ready to catch him, to take him… take him where?

He can’t think. He hates it. But he can’t think. His whole mind is jumbled, turned upside-down, what is this drug even, what do they want, how did they figure out…

There are arms around him, too muscular to be the Marchioness’. Even his addled mind is able to discern that, at least. He turns his heavy, heavy head. He can see the artfully decorated ceiling above him, spinning. A face, going in and out of focus. The skin is dark. The eyes are bright. Concerned.

 _Damianos_ , he thinks.

And then everything fades to black.

*

Laurent wakes with such a massive headache that, for a moment, he thinks he must be hungover. 

And then memories start flooding in.

Panic settles in heart, accelerating its beat, and he opens his eyes so quickly the sudden light hurts him. The world is still spinning around him, a lot. But he can’t feel the magic in his body anymore, or the drug, for that matter. So it’s probably only some side effects, however nauseating they are.

He tries again, slower this time. The ceiling isn’t familiar, and neither are the drapes at the corner of the bed. Pushing himself up on his elbows, until he can sit his back against the pillows, takes immeasurable effort, but he manages. The strange decor means he isn’t back at home, but giving the last image in his head - Damianos, looking down at him, scared - he can easily put what happened together, and where he is. He’s ready to bet Kastor wasn’t happy about having to host him for the whole night.

Speaking of Damianos, the man is curled up in an armchair in a corner of the room, soundly sleeping. Laurent takes this time, alone, to observe him unabashedly. 

He’s obviously too big for the chair, his legs dangling on one side, his head precariously hanging on the other, even though he’s gathered in on himself as much as humanly possible. Curls of his brown hair fall on his face, his mouth opened on silent snores. He looks relaxed, in his rumpled shirt, but not as relaxed as he did in the bakery, before Laurent ambushed him. Or that first time, at the library.

Whatever happened last night, Damianos helped him. Saved him? Laurent isn’t sure what the truth of the matter is. He might get answers, later, but for now he’s just thankful to be standing in a comfortable bed, with his head pounding slightly, and someone looking over him, and not in a cave somewhere, half beaten to death, or waiting for someone to ransom him. 

Moving is too tiring for now, so he waits for Damianos to wake up. He could call out to him. He doesn’t feel like it, though. But instead of Damianos awaking, he hears footsteps down the corridor, some time later. The door opens delicately, and a familiar face appears behind it. When Torveld’s eyes land on Laurent, awake, he visibly relaxes.

Torveld moves into the room as silently as he can, and comes to sit by Laurent’s side.

“Are you alright?” he asks, concern evident in his whisper.

Laurent nods. He isn’t sure he can’t quite trust his voice yet, but he tries. “What ha…” a small cough escapes his throat. His eyes fly to the sleepy form on the armchair, but Damianos doesn’t budge.

Mouth thinning, Torveld’s eyes are only fury for a second. He reigns himself in. “As you can guess, the Marquess tried to drug you. Thankfully, Damianos took notice before any of us did. He caught you before you could collapse, or they could snatch you away. And he also had very helpful insights on who the culprit was.”

So Laurent was right, then. Damianos did save him.

“Fools,” he says. Though he isn’t sure whether he means the nobles who attacked him, Damianos or himself. Perhaps a bit of everyone. 

Damianos stirs, probably disturbed by their conversation. It takes him as long to find his bearings as it took Laurent, and there’s an obvious pain in his neck. Eyes fluttering, he seems to be searching for something, until… until he lands on Laurent.

The smile that extends on his face feels painful, even from feet away. It’s like a punch to Laurent’s gut, like the first time he ever tasted Damianos’ magic, pain and pleasure at the same time, intermingling. Laurent feels himself lean forward, moved by an unseen force. Drawn to Damianos.

Only his immense control allows him to stop himself, and remain poised, instead, until Damianos comes to him. Which he does, almost instantly, greeting Torveld with a measure of familiarity that Laurent doesn’t expect. He stands at their side, taking a long look at Laurent - and Laurent shivers, he can’t help it - before he speaks.

“I’m happy to know you’re doing better.”

Laurent has to gather his thoughts and his wits before he can reply, clearing his sore throat once more in an attempt to not embarrass himself. By the Gods, what has he become? “I gathered I had you to thank for that.”

A delightful blush creeps up Damianos’ cheeks. Interesting. “Ha. I only did what anyone else would do in my place.”

“Don’t be modest, Lord Damianos,” Laurent cuts through his false humility, endearing as it is. “I owe you my safety, if not my life. Though, I do wonder why you were able to come to my aid so quickly.”

His teasing affects Damianos in exactly the way he expects it to. The man blushes some more, his ears turning vermillon, his eyes widening, heart rate no doubt spiking. Laurent makes a conscious effort to hide his satisfied smile. So Damianos had been looking at him. Observing him. Instead of feeling like a violation, Laurent finds power in the revelation.

Deciding to have mercy on his victim, he changes the subject. “I believe you have apprehended the culprits. Have they made their reasons for trying to abduct me clear?”

Rage. That is a surprise. It’s not directed at Laurent, yet it feels palpable. Is Damianos that mad that someone would try and crash his half-brother’s party like that? Is it the idea of nobles going behind each other’s back and drugging their enemies? Is it the thought of Laurent, and Laurent especially, getting drugged, that sends him over the edge?

That last one is a dangerous thought to have, and so Laurent pushes it far away from his mind, at least for the time being.

“It wasn’t a hard task to have them admit to their whole plan,” Damianos replies, still looking mildly pissed, eyes throwing daggers in the air. “I saw the Marquess in action, so there was no point denying it, and putting them on the spot in front of everyone else, at my brother’s party no less, made it even easier to arrest them.”

Silence. “So…?” Laurent nudges.

Damianos raises an eyebrow at him, a silent question.

“What was their plan?”

For a minute, confusion paints itself on Damianos’ features, as if he doesn’t understand why Laurent would want to know. Need to know. He must decide that it is of no importance, since he ends up answering, anyway. “Abduct you, pass you off as drunk, and have your protégé - Nicaise, is that right ? - pay off so big a ransom that you would have effectively been ruined.”

It’s Laurent’s turn to feel pure, unaltered rage. Nicaise. Those bastards would have been going after Nicaise. Gods, he hopes they’re still in custody somewhere, so he can kick them each in the knees until they can’t walk straight for the rest of their lives.

A big, steadying breath. He’s calm again. “And if the ransom had not been paid?” Would they have killed him, just like that?

Damianos shrugs, though there is a hint of doubt in his eyes. “They didn’t say.”

Laurent mulls over the revelations for only a few seconds. “I trust they’ve been dealt with accordingly?”

“They’re still in custody in one of our parlors for now, but they will soon be arrested, and stripped of their titles. They won’t even get to have a trial, it seems.”

“Can’t say I feel bad for them,” Torveld groans. He’s blaming himself, Laurent can see it in the way he carries his shoulders, in the tension of his jaw, in his every move. Laurent will have to make sure to reassure him, later on. For now, Torveld rises and leaves the room, with a few gestures indicating to Laurent he’ll be waiting by the carriage.

“Neither do I,” Damianos nods, more to himself than anything. His eyes, unfocused, turn back to Laurent, searching. In much the same tone as Laurent used earlier, he says, “Though I do wonder why they’d target you, especially, among so many of your peers, some much richer, and much less guarded, than you.”

The implications aren’t lost on Laurent. It feels like Damianos is vowing, threatening even, to find out. It makes Laurent’s blood run cold, because, for the first time, he feels ashamed. Ashamed of what he’s using his magic to do. And he should be proud. Though there’s no glamour to it, he’s not doing this for selfish reasons. He’s using his power for good, like he always promised Auguste he would. And yet, he’s afraid of what good, pure, true Damianos, who fled nobility to open a bakery with his friend, will think about it. About him. How he’ll judge Laurent.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he lies through his teeth, but even to him, it doesn’t sound convincing. 

**

Damen feels like he’s going to explode out of his skin. This day - these past few days, actually, though through the very little sleep he’s had, it seems like one long day - is going to be the one that drives him insane. He can feel it.

Last night, when Laurent fell into his arm, eyes rolling back, his body wracked with tremors, Damen had been scared for his life. He’d dealt with the Marquess and Marchioness quickly, giving them away to Kastor for handling, and immediately turned back to the man passed out in his arms. He was the one who took Laurent upstairs, put him in bed, had a healer fetched.

The drug turned out to be mostly harmless - just a soporific. It had seemed like much more, the way Laurent’s body had completely given away. 

Damen remained next to him all night. He only managed to doze off once Laurent’s body stopped shivering, and instead relaxed into a peaceful sleep. The sun had been very close to rising, by that time.

And now he’s outside his own room, in which Laurent sits, shirt half undone, revealing fragments of his pale torso, with his hair in tangles and his eyes still heavy. And Damen thinks he may be reaching his limit. Because it’s not only the physical attraction, or even the general attraction he has for Auguste’s brother. It’s… more. Something he can’t put his finger on, but that pulses, right under the surface. Something that feels strangely like magic.

When Laurent emerges dressed, appearance perfect, as if he hadn’t been drugged out of his mind hours earlier, Damen is still waiting by the door. He isn’t sure what he wants to tell him. _You’re welcome? Are you sure you’re alright? What’s happening to us? Can I see you again?_

Each question feels like too much and not enough at once. In the end, he doesn’t speak any of them. 

They share a glance, and Damen is so sure Laurent will walk by him, without even a proper goodbye. So sure, the plain “Thank you,” surprises him so much he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Laurent stands a couple of feet away, looking at him. He’s lost some of his assurance, no matter how high he holds his head. His eyes dart around, and he keeps running his right thumb and index against each other. Damen smiles. Seems like Laurent can be vulnerable as well. “You’re welcome.” 

Turning on his heels, Laurent heads for the main stairs. He’s right at them when he stops, turns back to look at Damen.

“Your pie...” he starts, voice raised to be heard. He stops, hesitates. Shakes his head. Stares intently at Damen. “Do deliver us some again, if you please.”

Laurent might as well have declared his love for Damen, given how happy this simple sentence makes him.

*

Nikandros awaits. He’s sitting on Damen’s sofa when he opens the door, jumping at the sound. Obviously anxious to know how it all went.

And then he sees Damen’s smile, and he relaxes.

“I take it last night wasn’t a total disaster?” he asks. He’s relieved, but he looks tired as well. Managing the bakery on his own today, while also worrying about his best friend, has taken its toll on him. 

“It was, and wasn’t,” Damen muses, aware that he’s teasing.

Nikandros sighs. He moves away from the sofa, to the kitchen, and Damen follows. It smells heavenly in there. Nikandros cooked for him, after he already had such a long day at work. It makes Damen want to cry. Instead, he watches in silence as his friend stirs the pot-au-feu, checks the bread that he put away to cool, and finally, turns to look back at him.

“What happened?” Nikandros’ crossed arms should be intimidating, but, frankly, Damen can’t quite bring himself to care right now.

“I hope you’re ready for this.”

And so he tells him. Everything. He only brushes over his clear physical attraction for Laurent, because Nikandros does not need to know about that, and it makes Damen uncomfortable to put it into words anyway. He doesn’t, however, temp down his general attraction for the De Vere heir. 

The first words out of Nikandros’ mouth are “You’re trying to kill me.” The second “Or to get yourself killed. Either way, one of us winds up dead.” He’s staring out the window, aghast, their meal, which they’d started while Damen recounted his night, forgotten in the plates. 

“I get that you like him. I get that you’re too much of a good person to not intervene while you’re seeing something untoward. But I hope you’re aware that you might just have thrown yourself in the middle of something dangerous.”

Damen moves his fork in the sauce in his plate, but doesn’t answer.

“They tried to drug him, Damen. In the middle of a party. And though they say they only wanted to ransom him - as if that isn’t bad enough - you don’t know that it’s true. What if someone comes for you?” Nikandros’ voice is rising, not in anger but in fear, tearing at Damen’s heart. “What if they come for me?”

Damen turns to him, and glares. “I won’t let them.”

“Oh yeah? What will you do, if they send a poisoned package over at my house. Or try to mug me in the street on an early morning? What will you do when they have a knife to your heart?”

“You’re overreacting,” he tries to placate Nikandros, with a shake of his head. “They’re much more subtle than that. And beside, they were only after Laurent, and they’ve been dealt with now. You shouldn’t worry.”

“I shouldn’t worry?!” Nikandros is screaming now. The neighbors are going to complain. “You got yourself in the middle of something far too big for you, Damen, all for some pretty eyes and pretty mouth. If you weren’t always thinking with your co…”

“That’s enough!” His hands slam on the table so forcefully he sends cutlery clattering to the floor, making Nikandros freeze. “I will not have you insult him, or me!” He takes a moment to breathe, to gather himself. “He’s Auguste’s brother, Nik. I couldn’t do nothing.”

Something breaks in him. Perhaps it’s all the thoughts of his old friend he kept holding back these past few weeks, perhaps it’s the adrenaline and worry from yesterday. Perhaps he’s just tired. He falls to his chair with no grace, pushing his forehead into his hands, and tries not to cry.

Nikandros is beside him in a moment, one arm around Damen’s shoulders, voice soft, all fear and anger purged. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.” He gives him a pat on the back, awkwardly. “I’m just worried about you is all. You know I can’t lose you.”

Moving to look his friend in the eye, Damen tries for a smile. It’s wobbly, but he achieves it, he thinks, given Nikandros’ laugh. “I know. But you know me by now.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

*

Their argument, and the subsequent hours of trying and failing to make sense of what happened, and what Laurent might be involved in, are all but forgotten the next day. They meet at the bakery, and they get to work, and neither of them peeps a single word about their conversation.

Customers go by in a blur, as they do, until the bell rings and a kid with brown hair walks in. Nicaise.

Damen puts on his best professional smile. “Hello, what can I do for you today?”

The glare that Nicaise cuts his way isn’t as fierce as any of the previous ones, which means he must have been apprised of the party’s events. The adolescent walks up to the counter in silence, looks around the pastries, and selects one. 

“I’ll take this one, please.” 

The politeness is a surprise, though it shouldn’t be. The kid is obviously noble, and knows how to carry himself in society. Damen is just weirded out by the fact that he is considered society now.

He’s packing the order when Nicaise speaks next. “Laurent told me, about your half-brother’s ball,” he says. Then, so low Damen has to strain to hear. “Thank you.”

It takes him a second to know what to reply, but he decides on a simple, “You’re welcome.” 

The silence is tense, afterward, Damen not knowing if he should say something more. Instead, he asks “Anything else?”

Nicaise blinks at him. Looks at the small packaged pastry Damen is pushing his way. “Ha!” he rights himself, flushed. “Yes, actually, I’d like one of your strawberry rolls, for my friend.” He points behind him, and beyond the store’s front, through the glass, Damen can see the same man as when they’d run into each other at the tailor, standing guard. He looks just as stern as he did before, but when he notices Damen’s gaze fixed on him, he smiles, and gives him a curt nod. 

Well, that’s new.

He adds the strawberry roll - one of his favorite recipes to make, one he tweaked only slightly from the way the house cook taught it to him, to add some of his mother’s favorite spices in it - and gives Nicaise his total, which the kid pays gracefully.

There’s more awkward standing in silence, until, finally, Nicaise turns around and leaves.

Damn lets off a breath. He feels like he’s just spent the past minute running, and not exchanging pleasantries with a kid ten years younger than him. Was this a test? Maybe. If it was, he thinks he might have passed.

And then he realizes he didn’t even ask about Laurent’s well-being, and he has to stop himself from slamming his head into the nearest wall.

**

Laurent is tired. It’s been two days, and yet he can’t quite shake the effects of what happened that night.

Paschal assured him it wasn’t the drug, that it’d been purged out of his system already. Which means it’s the magic, still clawing at him. Though he knows he needs to be careful with any magic that isn’t his own - he’s had to since Auguste died, since his uncle messed with him to try and seize the estate and the inheritance - he didn’t know he was that weak to it. It makes him so mad he wants to shake himself out of whatever stupor this is, and just get back to work.

His affairs are going smoothly, though. With very little instructions, Jord, Torveld and Berenger handle most of the contracts, sales, donations, and everything in between. He’d think they don’t need him, if he weren’t the reason they had anything to sell to begin with. 

When a pie shows up before lunch - Lazar assured him the one delivering it wasn’t Damianos, which Laurent will never admit disappoints him, even though he wouldn’t see him either way - Laurent’s mood rises, and the low level headache somewhat dissipates. But one smell, and he understands it isn’t Damianos’ pie. His mood sours again. It’s only alleviated again by the fact that this berry pie is still one of the best he’s ever tasted. It just lacks… a spark.

He forces himself to go through some files in the afternoon, and tries not to think too much about the events of the past few days. Though he’s mostly fine, physically, the nagging souvenir of the Marchioness’ smile, and the feeling of totally losing control, are still fresh in his mind. He manages to ignore it for an hour, where he is only mildly productive, before it creeps up on him, making him shiver. He abandons his post, and goes outside.

Fresh air does him good. He gulps it down greedily, strolling the gardens, walking aimlessly. Or at least he thinks so, until his steps take him to the dog pens. He finds Lys and Crocus waiting for him, pacing around their luxurious enclosures. They’re only in them during the day, when it’s nice outside, so they can stroll and have their fun without endangering other animals, which they tend to do. But they get bored easily. Laurent can relate.

The moment he opens the gate, they rush for him. He doesn’t get tackled to the ground this time, only pushed around, so he kisses and hugs them both, congratulates them on their good behavior, and then they’re off to the woods. The girls run around, barking at each other, and the rhythm of their paws hitting the ground lull Laurent back into a sense of safety.

Wind blows through the foliage, as autumn creeps in. The temperatures are still high for now, but won’t remain so for too long. Soon, the leaves will turn to a burnt orange, and fall to the earth, making the ground crisp. Laurent will be able to take his mare on a run and appreciate the new colors and smells, as he does each year. It will be lovely.

He spends hours outside, just strolling. Too long, perhaps, because once he comes back, Aimeric is waiting for him. The girls go after him the moment they spot his silhouette, and he greets them with a silly voice only ever heard when he’s cooing at the dogs. Laurent smiles.

“What is it?” he asks, because it’s always something, when Aimeric comes to him. Though Laurent knows he can rely on the man, because Jord trusts him, and Laurent trusts Jord, and because Aimeric has been a great help for the past couple of years, there’s always something stilted between them. A barrier they haven’t quite managed to break down, even though their love of animals has brought them closer over the years.

“Thought you’d want to hear the latest news around town,” Aimeric says, looking half-smug, half-concerned.

Laurent stares at him, resisting the urge to cross his arms.

“The rumors about Lord Damianos’ current… occupations have finally made their way to the townsfolk. Apparently, they’ve had quite a day,” he says, off-handedly. No doubt waiting for Laurent’s reaction.

Which makes Laurent all the more careful, arranging a pleasant smile and a mildly bored expression. “Is that so?”

“I hear people are still queuing in front of the bakery as we speak.”

“Well, the Earl of Akielos might have to retire from his new activities then. Or they’ll just have to hire one more person to work with them. Either way, it’ll keep people occupied for a while, which is good for us. I have a few… delicate matters to handle.”

Among which the fact that someone is after him, and Laurent is quite sure it wasn’t just the Marquess and Marchioness acting up on their own. His wealth redistribution plans don’t seem to be favored by everyone, unfortunately. 

Once back inside, it feels like the peace and quiet brought on by his stroll all fade away. The manor is mostly silent, everyone at their tasks, and yet there’s a tension there. Or maybe it’s just Laurent who’s tensed. Either way, something isn’t sitting right. He isn’t quite sure what it is until he gets to his office, and finds Nicaise waiting for him by the door, looking torn.

Laurent’s heartbeat speeds. “Nicaise,” he says, catching the kid’s elbow, bringing him inside to sit. “Is everything okay?”

For a while, Nicaise doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t even look at Laurent, gaze fleeting from one side of the room to another, never settling. 

“Nicaise, you’re worrying me,” Laurent admits in a quiet whisper.

Nicaise bites his lip, shakes his head, and sighs. “It’s just… we haven’t talked. About the other night.”

Silence. Laurent stands frozen, elbows up on his desk, unsure how to proceed. He had specifically avoided Nicaise, or at least this conversation, for the past days. Because he doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know how to talk about this to Nicaise, of all people. The kid already has so much on his shoulders. How can Laurent, in good conscience, put even more on them, when he knows all the trauma that already hangs heavy on him. But Nicaise is looking at him square on, defiantly, and Laurent must capitulate.

“Someone who doesn’t like me tried to plunge me into misfortune, Nicaise. It’s hardly something you need to know about.”

“You were drugged.” The words are like a slap to the face, and yet Nicaise doesn’t relent. “Someone drugged you and tried to abduct you. Of course it’s something we need to talk about!”

With a shake of his head, Laurent tries for a small smile, for appeasement. “You do not need to worry. Whatever happens to me, Jord and the others will be there to take care of you, to ensure your safety…”

“It’s not about my safety!” Nicaise screams, jumping from his chair. “I’m not worried about what happens to me! I’m worried about what could have happened to you, you utter arse!”

“Watch your language,” Laurent groans, but his heart is both soaring and breaking at the same time, and he can’t bear to put any heat behind his words. 

It’s like Nicaise doesn’t even hear him, as he paces around, still mad. “Have you even considered that your uncle might be trying to get at you again?!”

His blood coils. Because Laurent hadn’t. Or, more accurately, Laurent had refused to even entertain the possibility. He dealt with his uncle years ago. He, _they_ were free of his influence, his machinations, and, in Nicaise’s case, from his hands. So no, Laurent hadn’t considered. Because he couldn’t. Because the implications of his uncle’s involvement in this scheme were just too much for him. 

Nicaise is watching him. Staring at him, like he can read through his very soul. And though there’s fear in his eyes, there’s determination as well, something that shakes Laurent to his core. “He’s behind this. I just know he is,” he says, like he’d say “ _And we’ll fight him. And we’ll win._ ”

**

This was the worst idea, ever.

It’s been a week since Damen attended the party, and he thinks he might be dead by tomorrow, if things keep going the way they have been for the past couple of days. There are people, everywhere. The bakery is full to bursting more time than not, and the first day they were out of bread and pastries and basically everything by lunch, which means they’ve been getting up earlier to bake more, and going to sleep later to keep the store open long enough for everyone to get a chance at something.

And it takes so long. Usually, Damen exchanges a few pleasantries with customers, and then they’re on their way. Now, they all somehow want to know how he’s been, what he’s doing, and far too many details about his current life. It took him an hour before he stopped answering questions, beside saying he was doing all right, but it doesn’t stop them from digging.

Nikandros is already verging on insane, and he doesn’t have to deal with customers half as much as Damen does. Deliveries have been steady in numbers, only because they put a policy that they would only accept so many of them per day, since Nikandros is only human, after all.

It’s mid afternoon, and there are still dozens of people waiting around, but Damen is so, so tired. The lady he’s serving has been trying to probe him about marriage for the past five minutes, and he just wants it to end.

“Madam, with all due respect, I need you to leave so that I can deal with the next customer.”

“But, Lord Damianos…”

“Please call me Damen,” he says, for the hundredth time in the last three days.

The woman blushes. “Damen,” she replies, and he instantly regrets his previous offer, the romance drawl in her voice too much. “I’m just trying to get to know our local baker, surely…”

“Madam,” he interrupts, firm. “If you want gossip, please feel free to go to the tea salon, they have loads of it at hands. But please, refrain from coming here just to ask about my private life. You will find no answer here. And you’re holding up the queue.”

The woman has visibly paled, but Damen can’t bring himself to care. It feels very satisfying to put her in her place, even though he knows he’s putting all the pressure of the previous customers back on her, and she doesn’t truly deserve it. Still, he keeps on, “And that goes for all of you. This is a bakery, and though I am happy to have a chat with all of you from time to time, I am here to sell you sustenance, not rumors about my life. If you want a meeting with me, then please, send me an official letter of request, but otherwise, please refrain from intruding. Thank you.”

And with that, he walks away from the counter, and announces he’s taking a five minutes break.

Nikandros finds him on a bench in the back, head hanging low, two minutes later. He blinks, then comes to sit beside him. “Long day?”

“The longest.”

“I heard a client complaining outside, figured you might have snapped.” There’s no reproach in his voice, thank the Gods. Damen isn’t sure he could handle it right now.

A sigh. Damen closes his eyes. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t gone to that party.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t,” Damen nods. Because if he hadn’t gone, who knows what might have happened to Laurent.

Laurent, who he hasn’t seen since said party. He hoped, though he knew it was in the realm of wishful thinking, that maybe the man might come around to buy a pie himself. Or just to chat. Him, Damen wouldn’t have driven away, even if he’d asked questions.

But then Laurent had offered for Damen to bake him a pie. Except with all the work, Damen can’t find time to. He can’t find time for anything, really. It’s very annoying. 

Damen puts his apron back on, and goes to meet the customers. The line has dwindled after his outburst, though not by much, but the next clients are careful not to pry, and the smiles are shy, but genuine. It improves his mood greatly. And for the first time in the past few days, though he ends up exiting the bakery just as tired, he doesn’t feel as weary. He counts it as a win.

The next day, he sets on baking his pie. He tries another recipe this time, instead of copying Nikandros’ berry pie. He picks some apples and cinnamon, and the smells of the cooking bring him back fifteen years earlier, to the manor’s kitchen, his mother preparing the paste while Damen peeled the fruits, his father watching on with a gentle smile. The gestures are ingrained in him at this point, though he tweaks them here and there, adding or subtracting one thing or another.

Though there’s no design to carve on this one, Damen takes great care to arrange the edges of the crust in beautiful waves. When finally, it comes out of the oven, it smells and looks heavenly.

Nikandros eyes him when he puts the package in his hands, adding it to his toll for the day, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Damen can feel his judgment plain and clear.

The day trickles by slowly. It seems like his outburst yesterday put everyone back into their place, and though there’s more deference in everyone’s demeanor, except maybe the true regulars, who don’t seem to care much, there aren’t any more intruding questions. There are, however, still nearly as many clients, a lot of them new. Damen feels winded, when he can finally turn the sign on the door from Open to Closed. 

In the back, Nikandros is cleaning up, making sure everything will be ready for tomorrow. He perks up as he sees Damen, a smirk on his face. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

Nikandros whistles idly, trying and failing to pretend it’s nothing. “I got something for you, lover boy.”

The words make Damen stop. He resists the immediate urge to smile, if only because he knows how satisfied Nik will act if he does. But he’s sure his face betrays his impatience.

“You see, when I delivered your pie, and Lazar - don’t look at me like that, I only got the guy’s name because he’s been wooing Pallas for the past few weeks - noticed it wasn’t my pie, he had me wait up for a moment,” Nikandros explains, brows furrowed, “which, let me just say, with the numbers of deliveries I have, was not the plan. You’re lucky I’m so invested in your love life…”

A stern look from Damen is enough to make him proceed, not without sighing. “Anyway. Lazar brought back a note, and thanked me in advance for the pie, which he assured me would get to Lord De Vere first and foremost,” he says, crossing his arms, still smirking. And then he takes an envelope out of one of his pockets, and gives it to Damen.

In delicate handwriting, he can see the word “Damianos” written on the back of it. His heart pumps faster. He opens the flap with shaky fingers, and then stops, realizing Nikandros is still staring at him.

“Do you mind?” he asks, meaning to be teasing but ending up sounding much more vulnerable.

With a shrug, Nikandros turns, and goes to clean the front of the shop. “Fine.”

The envelope reveals pristine paper, and more of the fine script that was on the back. It isn’t long, but it’s enough.

“ _Dear Damianos, Earl of Akielos,_

_I wanted to thank you, once again, for saving my life at your half-brother’s party. Though I cannot reveal the under-goings that led to such a confrontation, your help has been most appreciated._

_I have presumed that you would not be interested in any monetary reward from me, though if I have presumed wrong, feel free to let me know. Instead, I offer you a favor from me or my family and friends, to call in whenever you’d like, now, or in years. I hope this response is satisfying enough for you._

_Your obliged,_

_Laurent De Vere_ ”

Damen stares at the words. And stares. And stares.

He stares at them so much that he can cite them by heart once he’s home, that they’re all he can think about during the next few hours. He’s eating his diner, alone, and yet it’s like he can hear Laurent’s voice reciting in his head. He finds himself considering the favor over and over again. And though he knows he should keep it for later, for something useful, because you only come by such favors from a powerful ally once in your life, there’s only one favor he thinks of asking. And it’s one Nikandros would have his head for.

Still, Damen takes his ink pen, his ink bottle, one of the papers he keeps preciously, to write his reports and orders when necessary, and he gets to work.

**

Damianos’ apple pie is a true delicacy. 

When Lazar brought it up to his office yesterday, Laurent was surprised, no doubt. He had asked for Damianos to send him more, but he hadn’t truly expected the man to deliver. He had hoped though. At least it gave him an opportunity to send his note over.

The scent had been tantalizing, and when he’d taken it out of its package, it had looked just as beautiful as any pastry from their bakery Laurent had tasted. The newness of the flavor was welcomed as well. What excited him most, though, had been the sweet hint of magic he could detect in the air.

So Laurent finished his tasks, wrote his letters, gave his instructions to Jord and Berenger, and then he locked himself in his office, after asking for a plate and cutlery from the kitchens, and he dove in.

The feeling was instantaneous, faster even than last time. He’d barely swallowed before the heat spread from his stomach to his heart, and then to his whole body, nearly suffocating in its overbearing presence, and yet welcomed. The magic went to his head, just like most magic did. Except this one, instead of making him addled, of birthing a headache worthy of a great party, made his mind clearer. Sharper. It enhanced his senses, focusing on his taste, the flavors of the apple and cinnamon bursting on his tongue, without overpowering the other spices. 

When Laurent came back to himself after having eaten half the pie without quite realizing it, he felt like he’d been born anew. 

He forced himself to give the remainder of the pie to his friends, but the looks he got from everyone, especially Jord, were clear enough.

He finds himself craving it even the next day. Or craving something, either way. Something that tastes closely of Damianos’ magic.

Instead, with their bread and pastry delivery, comes a note. An answer to the one from the previous day, no doubt. As he marches to check the outside walk, he finds a silhouette passing the gate, with a cart of packages with them. He can identify that it isn’t Damianos with a glance. Probably Nikandros then. The best friend.

The note stays on his desk for the whole day. He refuses to open it for multiple reasons - his men are expecting him to tear it apart the moment he receives it, and he doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction, but he also doesn’t want whatever is inside to distract him before he’s done with his work. He gave Paschal the last payment for the orphanage yesterday, which means he’s trying to find another charity, perhaps one that can’t be as easily linked back to him, to distribute the biggest cuts of money. It’s taxing, but rewarding work, especially when he finally sets his mind on supplying food to those in need in Vask, through various charities. It will surely endear him to the Vaskian, especially after he sent Charles their way. And Vannes will be pleased to be able to work with Halvik again, no doubt.

Once the night creeps in, and everyone is preparing for bed, Laurent can’t take it anymore. He picks up the envelope, his letter opener, and finally reveals what lies inside.

_“Dear Laurent, Earl De Vere,_

_I am pleased to hear news of your well-being, after what happened. Know that my help did not require any reward, and was given freely and willingly, with the knowledge that helping someone in need was enough._

_I also hope you appreciated the pie. You did request for more, but I hope the change in pastry was as nice for you as it was for me. I would receive your compliments or critiques with both anguish and delight, so feel free to write them out, and have them delivered via Nikandros (though I would request that you do not tell him I compared him to a messenger pigeon, for which he would have my head)._

_Though I have just admitted to not needing your favor, I would take what is offered, if you would let me. But I do not ask for any political gesture or gift from you. What I ask is for a little of your time, and your company. I know it is bold of me, especially since I do not mean it to be a formal meeting between two Earls, but just a gathering of two minds alike. I would like to know you better, if you would let me._

_I thus request for you to join me at the library next Sunday at midday, if my offer at all interests you. It is usually closed at such times, but the librarian is an old friend, prone to exceptions, when asked for nicely enough. If you would not meet me, however, know that it won’t reflect badly on you or your reputation in any way._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Damianos of Akielos”_

The sound of his heart is so powerful Laurent can feel it beating at his temple. He lays the paper on his desk, his hand flattening it out. He gulps, and blinks, and forces slow breaths into his throat. 

Damianos wants to meet him. 

Damianos wants to meet him, not as an Earl to an Earl, but as what could be described as friends. Or maybe more. Because Laurent may never have done it - or have it done to him - but he isn’t pure enough that he doesn’t know what courting is, or what it looks like. Just the thought of it, of having Damianos lavish attention on him, makes his cheeks heat up.

Laurent clears his throat, shakes his head, and goes to open the window. The cold air of the beginning autumn soothes him, but his head is still spinning. He’s in the middle of a huge game, one he now believes he’s playing against his uncle yet again. One where the slightest misstep could cost him his estate, or worse, his life. And yet… and yet he finds himself considering Damianos’ offer, and what it entails. Not only considering it, but wanting it to happen.

Though the excuse his mind supplies for him is that he needs to question Damianos about his magic, about what makes it feel so nice for Laurent, about why it’s so different from every other magic he’s ever tasted or had used on him, Laurent knows it’s not just that. Even without the magic, Damianos is an intriguing man. One of honor, with a kind heart to match his kind physic. He feels like Laurent’s weakness. 

So Laurent folds the note and tucks it inside a book - one he knows no one but him will ever open - and he moves back to his bedroom to go to sleep. He has two days to decide whether or not Damianos is worth jeopardizing his whole life, and those of his family, for. But Laurent fears he might have already made up his mind.

**

The library is empty except for him. Damen can see each particle of dust floating through the sun-rays, can hear the people out on the street, smell the old paper enclosed in each of the bookcases. But his mind is solely focused on the door, and on the person that might walk through at any moment. Or might not. He hasn’t heard a word from Laurent since he sent his own note over, and he fears what that might spell out for him. Damen was, after all, very presumptuous in his approach.

He’s laid a cloth on one of the study tables, and a whole feast on top of it. Nikandros helped him to cook, grudgingly. There’s a rice salad, assorted with different seasonal vegetables and a lot of spices - something cold, because the library doesn’t have anything to heat food with -, and multiple pastries, some salted, some sugary. The smells permeate the area. Damen hopes it won’t remain for too long, or Heiron might find some of his patrons asking him questions.

Sitting on the table’s corner, browsing a book he picked at random, and turned out to be a children’s book on princes, one human, the other a mermaid, he waits. And waits. And waits. The clock mounted on the wall indicates it’s a quarter past midday. If Laurent means to come, he’s late. Damen doesn’t think Laurent is the type to be late.

He closes his heart to the searing pain he can feel coming. This was one of the possible outcomes of his request. He knew it. He took a calculated risk. It didn’t pay off, this time. It happens.

The sound of the pages hitting against each other resounds within the library walls as he closes his book and puts it back on the shelves, a sigh escaping his lips. Nikandros will accuse him of mopping once he gets back, but Damen can’t quite help it. He’d hoped, truly, that the spark he’d felt between himself and Laurent was reciprocal, and that it was intriguing enough for the De Vere’s heir to daign spend a couple of hours with him. No luck this time.

He’s about to pack all the food back into their basket when the front door creaks. At first, he thinks it must be his imagination playing tricks on him, mostly because there are no footsteps to follow, and no light spilling inside from what he can see in his peripheral vision. He still turns his head, hoping against hope. The door is barely ajar, a centimeter from where it was before. And then, finally, it opens completely.

Laurent stands in the archway, his clothes plain compared to what he wore at the party, and still cutting an exquisite figure on him. He seems lost for a second, eyes roaming around before focusing on Damen. Then his resolve solidifies. He takes a step in, closes the door behind him, still without a word. His gaze cuts to the table behind Damen, and a myriad expressions fleet through his eyes, most of which Damen can’t interpret.

“Glad to see you could join me,” he says, so awkwardly it makes even himself cringe. Thankfully, Laurent seems to be inside his own head, and doesn’t take notice. Damen moves around the table, draws a chair out for Laurent. “Please, be seated.”

Laurent complies, still looking unsure about what he’s doing here. “Thank you,” he says, in a half-whisper.

Sitting opposite one another, their gaze never crossing, the silence stretches between them. Then Laurent sighs.

“Your invitation was… a surprise,” he says, and finally he’s looking at Damen, unsure still.

Damen moves to fill the plates, proceeding to distract his mind with simple tasks. “A good one, I hope?” he tries, meaning to lighten the atmosphere.

It works, because Laurent unwinds a bit, shoulders slouching, and a half smile breaks upon his face. “We will see about that.”

They exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, Damen inquiring about Nicaise - who, it turns out, is well - and about Laurent’s health, question which he quickly evades with a wave of his hand. In return, Laurent asks about the bakery’s newfound celebrity, and Damen answers, shyly, trying to blame it on anything but his fame, but not quite managing to avoid talking about the strain it has put on Nikandros and himself. Laurent looks concerned, but he doesn’t say more.

After these couple of exchanges, which have lightened the atmosphere, Laurent accepts his plate with thanks and a hunger in his eyes that surprises Damen. Still, he takes his first bite very carefully, and Damen forces himself to look away. But the wave that hits the air once Laurent swallows, pure power, makes him whirl back. “What…”

Looking like a deer startled by a hunter, Laurent freezes. He lowers his fork. Smacks his lips. “I don’t know,” he answers Damen’s half-formed question. “This…” he waves his hand at himself, and then at the food, “has been happening since I first tasted your pie.” The admission seems to cost him a lot.

Which makes Damen very careful with his next words. “This, meaning magic?” It worries him, because if his magic affects Laurent that way, then what does it do to others? Or did he simply overdo it preparing food specifically for Laurent? Is that even possible? But then why would his first pie have had the same effect, when he didn’t know who it was for when he baked it? It doesn’t make sense, and his head spins, panic in his heart as he worries that Laurent might resent him for this. 

“If you don’t want to eat any more, I understand,” he says, already moving to push the plates away.

“No!” Laurent’s voice rings in the library, his hand extended to stop Damen, but not quite touching him. Damen stops. It takes only a second for Laurent to withdraw, clearing his throat. “It’s alright. It’s not… bad. Just surprising.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, and Damen doesn’t want to pry, so he just quietly resumes his meal, thoughts spinning, but nothing quite making sense still. 

There’s more awkward silence for the next few minutes. It seems frustrating for the both of them, Laurent clenching his fork ever so slightly every time he looks at Damen, and Damen opening and then closing his mouth, not knowing what to say.

“Talk to me about Auguste.” The words are like a blow to his head, making the world spin. So unexpected. And it hurts, just thinking about Laurent’s brother. But it looks like it’s hurting Laurent just as much to ask, and that is enough for Damen. Because if they can share their hurt, and maybe heal a bit of each other’s wounds, then this might be worth it.

“Only if you tell me about him too,” Damen replies, and Laurent nods.

And so he does. He recounts their forest adventures, pretending to hunt deer or to sail high seas when they were younger, and then moving out to town to spy on girls and boys like the silly teenagers they were, evading the notice of both their parents with delight. He recounts how proud Auguste was every time he mentioned Laurent, even though they were few. Laurent’s eyes are shiny by the time Damen finishes, but he never lets a tear spill away.

Laurent’s confessions are harder still. Every word seems drawn painfully from him, only getting marginally easier the longer he speaks. There’s awe and respect and love and grief in each sentence, talking about how studious and brave and smart Auguste was, and how much of a perfect heir he was. 

Damen stops him at that. “Though I agree your brother would have been a formidable head of the De Vere family, you have nothing to be ashamed of, Laurent. From what I can gather, you’re just as smart, if not smarter, and respected by everyone around you, be it your staff or other nobles.”

Laurent snickers. “The Marquess and Marchioness notwithstanding.”

“The Marquess and Marchioness notwithstanding,” Damen agrees with a laugh, but even though Laurent is trying to joke about it, Damen is ready to bet he’s still affected. He would be as well.

“I can’t help but compare myself to him,” Laurent admits in a murmur. “It’s hard. I always feel like I’m not doing enough. For the estate. For the family.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You give me too much credit, Damianos,” his name in Laurent’s mouth sends shivers down Damen’s spine, but he refrains, and tries to concentrate instead on Laurent’s words. He’s surprised the man is opening up to him so much, though he’s drinking in as much as he can, the trust Laurent displays precious. “My way of running the estate probably wouldn’t be - isn’t, actually - to all of my family’s taste, and I have yet to produce a true heir, and never will. I’m ending the De Vere line.”

Damen shrugs. “And what if everyone isn’t on par with what you’re trying to achieve? From what I gathered, you give a lot of your money away to charities, like the new orphanage. I’m sure any normal person would find this inspiring, like I do. If they don’t, it is their own problem to deal with, not yours.” He doesn’t say that he, himself, is employing much of his own family’s money the same way, though he probably isn’t giving as much away, half of his father’s earnings having been redirected to Kastor, double what his father had intended in his will, at Damen’s decision. “As for the heir problem… I know Nicaise isn’t biologically yours, but I, personally, think he’d do great as your successor, if you chose to bestow the De Vere name upon him.”

Something shifts in Laurent’s eyes at Damen words. He softens, considerably, though there are still walls upon walls, mask upon mask, before Damen can get to the true him. 

**

“Your words are very kind, though I’m not sure you won’t come to regret them, in time.” Laurent drags his fork around his plate, and then takes a piece of dessert, to occupy his hands. He can feel himself unraveling under Damianos’ careful praise and sublime food. Magic is thrumming through his veins, a low rush now instead of the first punch of it all, but still vibrant. It’s taking all of his willpower to not let his mouth run wild without him, spilling all of his secrets.

Damianos cocks his head to the side like a puppy. Laurent isn’t sure whether or not he’s doing it on purpose to distract him, but it’s working. “And why is that?”

Damn it all. He’s said too much already. But he can’t just confess everything to a near stranger. How does he tell him about his uncle? About his aversion to all magic - except Damianos’? About his side business? About the fact that someone is after his life, even now?

Because even though he implicated Damianos by coming here today, telling him the truth would ensnare him forever in the mess that is Laurent’s life. And he can’t. He can’t do that to the man. Not if he has anything to say about it. 

But Damianos is waiting for an answer, and though he acts lost and naive, Laurent is very much aware he’s anything but. Maybe he can share bread crumbs with him. Something that’s somewhat safe. Maybe…

“The Marquess and Marchioness aren’t exceptions in our circles. I’m not as liked as you would seem to believe. Unfortunately, my uncle has been hard set on smearing my name, and his campaign seems to be bearing more fruits than I would like it to.”

Brows furrowed, Damen keeps eating. “That can’t be all there is to it. And even if it was, why would your uncle, of all people, want to drag your name in the dirt. He’s family.”

This is slipping into dangerous terrain. Laurent should have known even the smallest hint would be too much. He isn’t ready for this. His blood picks up, and he straightens, forcing a gulp down his throat, ignoring the magic pulsing in his gut, in his blood, in his head.

“My uncle isn’t the nicest person. And that’s an understatement.”

Damianos is still looking at him like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together. And then, suddenly, something seems to fit, and he says, “Wait, I remember Auguste talking about him…” a look of horror passes on his face, “he thought maybe your uncle was behind your parents’…”

The reaction is pure instinct. Laurent pushes with all of his might, golden magic at his fingers, against his lips, as he grabs Damianos’ hand and says, in his most impervious voice, the order clear as crystal, “I need you to drop this subject, right now.”

Damianos blinks. But instead of the daze that’s expected, instead of the golden chains snagging around his wrist and compelling him to do Laurent’s binding, he’s only wracked by a full body shiver, his pupils dilating. Laurent’s magic fails.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Damianos shakes his head as if to clear his mind, not from Laurent’s order but from something else, lips thinning, “Forgive me.” He withdraws his hand from Laurent’s grip slowly. 

Words fail him, just as his magic has. What is happening? Is it his magic, which didn’t work on the Marquess, and doesn’t seem to work today? Or is it Damianos? After all, if Damianos’ magic affects Laurent strangely, it is to be expected that Laurent’s magic wouldn’t compel him as it does others. But still…

With a fake smile, Laurent picks the conversation back up. “It’s alright. It’s a sore subject, but you didn’t know.”

He kind of wants to try again. See if it was a fluke or not. Before he can though, Damianos stares back at him. “What was that, just now?”

Merciful Gods. And here Laurent thought he’d be too polite or too dumb to notice and mention it. He should have known better.

He can’t lie. Not that he isn’t a great liar, even without his magic, but it feels wrong, and he hates that it feels wrong, that Damianos’ rightfulness has already slipped into his own mind. But he can’t evade the question either. He’s stuck.

Silence drags on, but Damianos awaits, patiently. There’s no escape.

And then the front door opens and someone walks in. Not the librarian, from what Laurent can gather, because he remembers him as an old man, not a gangly teenager. The girl’s eyes widen as she sees them, and she mumbles something along the lines of “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was closed today,” even though it’s a Sunday, and she withdraws, closing behind her.

Damianos and Laurent stare at each other. And then Damianos’ laugh explodes into the air, and it’s so joyous, so bubbly that Laurent can’t help himself, and laughs too, something more contained but there still. It draws quite the smile out of Damianos, and Laurent thinks, belatedly, that if a laugh is all he needs to get that beautiful of a face on the man, then he might try and laugh more often.

*

Back at the manor, Laurent releases a sigh. After the impromptu interruption by the teenager, most of the tension had bled from their lunch, and they’d kept on talking about this and that, before they’d both needed to head back home. It had gotten awkward again as they left, Damianos staring at him a long time as they closed the doors of the library behind them, the intense gaze unnerving. Laurent had managed not to blush, at least. Though he realized, back home, that he wouldn’t have minded a kiss, perhaps. He blushes now, thinking about it.

They’d separated agreeing to keep in touch via notes, which made Laurent both tremendously happy and incredibly weary. 

Right now, though, he has something else on his mind. The sun is setting and he heads for his office, finding Jord there, at work even though it’s a Sunday. He’d admonish him, but it’s not his priority right now.

“Jord. I need your help.”

The man jumps from his chair, ready. He’s eyeing Laurent with worry, which he placates immediately. “It’s nothing life threatening, but it’s important.” He sits on the other side of his desk, invites Jord back into his own chair, and stares him right in the eye as he asks. “I would like to try compelling you. Something small, I promise. We can agree on it beforehand. Will you let me?”

The request is strange, and it comes as no surprise that Jord is shocked for the first few seconds, and then nods. “Alright? Though might I ask why you feel the need to practice your magic on me?”

Laurent groans. “I wasn’t able to compel Damianos earlier. I want to make sure it still works.”

“You tried to do what?” Jord asks, in a flat voice, eyes turning sour.

“I didn’t mean to!” And he really didn’t. “He spoke about my uncle, and I reacted. I only asked that he stop talking, I promise.”

Jord’s sigh is heavy, but understanding crosses his features. “One of these days, Laurent, you’ll get into trouble that even you won’t know how to get out of.”

“I already did,” he grumbles, thinking back to the party. Then he looks back at Jord, and asks again. “Is it alright then? If I ask you to go pick a book, or something silly like that?”

A shrug. “Sure. As long as you don’t ask me to ridicule myself.”

Laurent smiles. “It would be a good opportunity, but I won’t, I assure you.”

“Then go ahead.”

Jord extends his hand, knowing the physical link will enhance the effect, and lets Laurent touch his skin ever so slightly. The magic thrums at his fingers as it always does, and he laces his voice with it, and asks, “I would like you to go pick our book on finances, the heaviest one. And bring it back to the desk. Please, Jord.”

Pupils dilate, a breath catches in the man’s throat, and it’s painful to watch as his features go slack and a smile extends his lips, ready to comply. “Yes, my lord.”

And Jord does. The weight of the book makes it thunk against the table, heavy in the silence. And then Jord sits down, and the magic drops. His brain is no doubt scrambled, and it takes him a few seconds to get his bearings, especially since his memory of what he just did is undoubtedly fuzzy.

“Ha,” he says, half laughing, with an awkward twist to his lips. “I see you asked for the heaviest thing you could find.”

“Sorry,” Laurent whispers, and not just for the book. He hates that he just had to do that, and hates even more the fact that he’s relieved that it worked. His magic isn’t broken. He isn’t broken. 

But that also means Damianos is immune.

**

When Laurent’s next note finds him, Damen doesn’t expect it. 

It’s once again brought to him by Nikandros, who sends him a judgy eye but doesn’t say anything, just hands him the missive. Damen doesn’t waste time in opening it.

_“Damianos,_

_I’d first like to express my many thanks for our lunch last Sunday. The experience, albeit unusual, was a pleasant one. In this spirit, I’d like to invite you for another outing. How would you feel about a ride with me? I know the manor’s woods aren’t unknown to you, and, if you’d appreciate the experience, I’d like to step in my brother’s footsteps, and explore them with you._

_Let me know how next Monday’s early afternoon works for you._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Laurent De Vere.”_

He writes down his enthusiastic reply immediately, and has it sent back the very next day. His impatience makes waiting for Monday - for their date, dare he think - all the more excruciating. Damen loves his job, but these days, with the flow of new customers he doesn’t know how to approach, and the wait, it gets… difficult.

Nikandros makes him work on Sunday morning, since he replaced him last time. It’s usually pretty calm, only serving pastries for the customers’ breakfast, but he gets the odd client here and there, looking for a loaf of bread. Since it’s not as busy, Damen allows himself to take a bit of time to talk with them.

There’s a man at the counter right now, someone Damen hasn’t seen before, surely drawn to the shop by the recent revelation of Damen’s identity. He asks for bread and pastries, and Damen is preparing everything when the man engages him in conversation. “You’re smiling an awful lot for someone that’s working on a Sunday,” he laughs.

Damen shrugs. “I like baking. Makes it easy.”

“Ha, and here I thought there might be a damsel responsible for such happiness.”

With a roll of his eyes, Damen packs the last pastry. It’s not the most subtle question he’s had about his love life as of yet, but he is indeed feeling cheerful today, thinking about what will happen tomorrow, which leaves him in a mood to humor the man. So he shakes his head, and extends the packages to the customer.

But the man doesn’t leave, instead cocking his head to the side with a knowing look. “No damsel uh? How about a sir then?”

Damen doesn’t answer, because it’s none of this man’s business, but he knows his smile extends, can feel it in the strain of his cheeks, and the heat that comes up to them. He sees it in the way the customer grins, obviously pleased. 

“Well, have fun on your gateway, or whatever it is that’s got you smiling like this, lad,” he says with a wave of his hand, and finally leaves.

It would have been rude for anyone to address him like that in a formal setting, but Damen is glad for the freshness of the interaction. And so he doesn’t quite mind it.

The slow trickle of things gets him all the way to Monday, and though he could enjoy a long, once-in-a-week sleep-in, he’s up at eight like clockwork, heart pumping fast. He finds himself not knowing what to do for the first couple of hours, until finally midday comes, and he eats a quick meal and moves to the town’s stables. The handler takes a look at him, and takes him to his and Nikandros’ horses, fed and taken care of in their own little paddocks, paid by Damen’s money, though until a couple of weeks ago, the handler might have wondered where two bakers found enough money to buy two pristine horses and have them looked after so well. The man bows to Damen, and then leaves him to his work.

Damen’s gelding shakes his head with a puff when he recognizes his owner, and comes trotting forward happily. He falls half asleep as Damen brushes him and puts the saddle on, and wakes up the moment Damen’s foot is in the stirrup, tail moving around, ears flicking back and forth. Damen has to hold him to a steady walk on the pavement until they’re finally on the border of town, and he feels guilty for all the pent-up energy. He should get his horse out more often.

The gelding breaks into a gallop the moment Damen releases some of the tension on his mouth, and Damen laughs, wind slapping against his face, the grass scent filling his nose, birds chirping around them. It’s lucky Damen decided to take the long road around town, because going through it with such an overly energized gelding might have spelled trouble, either for him or passers-by. 

The De Vere manor appears on the horizon a couple of minutes later, but Damen doesn’t aim for it. Instead, he lets the horse run further, passing the white mansion with only a look for it, until the forest behind reveals itself. He remembers each trail like he walked them yesterday. Laurent asked for them to join in a clearing near the estate, but Damen really missed the woods, and so did his horse, so he might as well go through before their meeting, to make sure they’re both calmer once they get there. 

He slows his mount back to a trot once they hit the dirt trail. It’s not safe enough to gallop through, and Damen doesn’t plan on breaking anything today. Except maybe branches, which snap under his gelding’s hooves, or when they try and tangle into Damen’s clothes. Slowing down further to a lively walk, he takes his surroundings in, slowly. It’s like they haven’t changed, and yet they have. The small oak tree that was on the left of this trail has grown and spread, bringing in welcome shade against the early afternoon sun, and branches are overgrown here and there. The woods haven’t been tended to as much as they were, back then, perhaps because the two boys who used to run through them and could injure themselves haven’t come here in years. It’s sad, in a way. But nature is beautiful, and Damen drinks it all in all the same.

He’s getting closer to his destination, the trees growing more apart, when a sound draws his attention. It isn’t a horse, so it can’t possibly be Laurent, unless he dismounted, and went through the trees. Damen stops his gelding. And looks on, straining to hear.

Someone’s moving through the bushes. Damen can’t see them, but he can hear the very faint sound of their feet on the ground, and he tenses. Whoever they are, they’re obviously trying to be discreet. To sneak up on someone. And, given the direction they’re moving - away from Damen, and toward the rendez-vous point -, they’re here for Laurent.

Damen’s blood runs hot and cold at the very same time, and he dismounts without a sound, patting his horse’s nose when he huffs. He attaches him to a low hanging branch. And then he moves.

He’s lucky that he kept up with all of his martial training, thanks to Nikandros. Though he doesn’t have any weapon on him - and why would he, this was supposed to be a date - Damen knows he’s good enough with only his fists if it comes down to it. And it seems like it will.

The man, because it seems that it is a man from feet away, is crouched in the bushes, making slow but steady progress. From afar, Damen can guess at the clearing, the luminosity growing ahead of them, and the sounds of Laurent cooing small words to his mare evident in the distance. Something shines in his peripheral vision, and Damen focuses on a dagger in the man’s hand. He definitely isn’t here peacefully then. 

There are only a few feet left before the man is out in the open, coming behind Laurent, and Damen is nearly on him. He takes a deep breath, steadies his hands. But he’s so distracted with his target he forgets about watching his footsteps, and makes a branch crack. The man in the hood turns.

Damen tackles him to the ground with a grunt, landing a punch before the assassin can react, and then he rolls away, escaping the blade that tries to cut him off.

“Damianos!” he hears Laurent’s panicked gasp. The man is attacking again, obviously pissed that his attempt on Laurent’s life didn’t go as planned. He swings the dagger at Damen once, twice, which he evades both times. And then the man seems to realize he’s in for it, and looks around, ready to duck. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Damen growls, going for him again. 

He misses, and the man ducks away, Damen’s fingers barely brushing the cape. To help in his escape, the man slashes at Laurent’s horse, cutting in its hindquarters. The mare howls, and bucks, and Damen, though he’s still running, turns to make sure Laurent is alright. He releases a sigh when he sees Laurent has jumped off, calming the animal already.

Pain. Damen’s breath leaves him, and when he raises his head he can clearly see the would be assassin's face, staring at him with a smirk. The dagger is plunged into his own abdomen, twisting, a searing blow. Blood trickles down. 

But instead of thinking about himself, Damen tries to remember the man’s face as best as he can, so he’ll be able to describe him when the detectives come. He’s clutching his side, wheezy, still trying to block the man’s path. But it hurts so much. It’s awful. Maybe it pierced his stomach. Or his lungs. He’s having trouble breathing, but he isn’t sure if it’s the pain or something else.

He sees, through his blurry vision, Laurent move. He’s just a silhouette, graceful in his blue clothes, golden hair alight with the sun, and there’s what must be a rapier in his hand. The assassin only gets three more paces in before he’s stopped by the man he tried to kill. Laurent doesn’t hesitate. Damen hears a scream, and then the body drops, the weapon stuck in his own gut. 

And then Laurent is rushing to him, but by then Damen is having trouble holding on to his own consciousness. He tries to call for him, maybe thank him, or say he’s glad that he’s alive, but there are only garble words out of his mouth. He sees Laurent’s blue eyes, alight with worry. And then he faints.

*

Damen opens his eyes to a chamber he’s never been in before. He feels bone tired, and then he tries to move and feels even worse, because his left side is burning like all Hell broke loose. He looks down, and finds, without surprise, bandages wrapped around his middle. They’re white, so he guesses he hasn’t busted any stitches for now. He tries to have it remain that way, very slowly rising until he’s sitting against fluffy cushions. 

The room is small, luminous. It’s all white, with not much furnishing, and it downs on Damen that he’s probably in the hospital. Which would only be logical, considering he got stabbed trying to stop someone from assassinating Laurent. 

And to think he was supposed to go on a riding date. And now he lays in a bed, his belly pierced, all alone. 

Damn it all.

The door swings open, and in comes a man, someone who must be a doctor given the way he’s dressed. He blinks, eyes wide, when he notices Damen awake.

“I’m glad to see you back among the living,” he says as an introduction, not quite smiling.

“Glad to be back.”

The man leans over him with a critical eye, and, without warning, starts poking around Damen’s abdomen. He unravels the bandages, observes his work - the stitches look nice enough, but there’ll definitely be a scar - grunts, and nods. “Well, you should survive to see another day.”

Damen wants to laugh, but even smiling makes hurt burst in his side. “I hope I’ll survive to see more than that.”

“Well, if you keep putting yourself between people and blades, it’s unlikely you’ll survive a very long time,” the man comments. He tries to protest, but doesn’t manage to get a word in edgewise, before the man turns on his heels. “A lot of people were waiting for you to wake up. Your fellow baker is downstairs at the moment, and I’ll send word to Earl De Vere as well. If I were you, I’d prepare to have my chambers invaded.”

And he isn’t wrong. Only a minute or two after he’s left, the door bursts open once again, Nikandros appearing in the threshold, out of breath, eyes wide with worry. 

“You… _bastard_!” he points at Damen, half crying, rushing up to his side. Damen tenses, ready to be beat up, and yet instead he’s engulfed into a hug, so tight that it still hurts.

“Ow. Nik, my stomach, please!”

Nikandros mutters. “Should have thought about this before you went and got yourself stabbed.”

“It’s not like I meant to,” Damen whispers with a scowl. The scowl turns to a smile when Nikandros withdraws, face wet, nose runny. “You look ridiculous.”

“ _You_ look ridiculous,” he retorts, without heat, wiping his snot and tears away quickly.

Silence. “I’m sorry. For worrying you,” Damen whispers, contrite.

Nikandros scoffs, crossing his arms. “You’re sorry for worrying me, but not for getting in the path of a knife. You’re impossible.”

“You know I’m not going to apologize for helping someone, Nik.”

“Especially if that someone is Laurent De Vere,” Nikandros agrees, judgmental. “I understood that last time you went and got into trouble, thank you very much. You needn’t get mortally wounded to make your point.”

“It was an assassin. Someone was trying to kill him,” Damen says, vehemently, more to himself than to Nikandros. Someone knew about their meeting. Someone knew about their meeting, and tried to use that opportunity to murder Laurent. If Damen hadn’t gone by the route behind the manor, if he hadn’t known exactly which path to take, he might have found a body once he got there. The very thought freezes his blood.

“I got that as well. And so did the officers. Everyone at the De Vere manor is being questioned, and they’re holding the murderer in a cell. He’s in better shape than you are, only because Lord De Vere made sure he stuck his weapon where it wouldn’t be life threatening, but still hurt like hell.”

Damen smiles, faintly recalling the fight that followed his stabbing. Of course Laurent would have apprehended the man in no time. Well, whatever the inquest finds out, it will sure be interesting.

They keep talking for a while, Nikandros telling him how the rumor of him saving Laurent’s life - for the second time, though that one wasn’t an anecdote as well known - spread around town in the past few days, how everyone came to the bakery for news about his condition, or simply to gift things for when he woke up. Gifts that Nikandros doesn’t have with him right now, since he didn’t know Damen would wake up. But he promises to go and get them for him, and after an hour of talking, Damen’s side starting to burn even further, Nikandros tells him he’ll go home to get a few of them, mostly the edible ones, to give him a break.

The break lasts only for ten minutes, enough for Damen to doze off, and be woken by the hinges creaking when someone opens the door. The doctor - Paschal, he gathered from his conversations with Nik - walks in first, so he thinks it’s just another check up, but behind him is Laurent, and suddenly Damen is wide awake.

Laurent looks odd in the hospital chamber, stark against the white door which Pashal closed as he left again. Where the place is all pristine and yet sad, he shines, even with his pale skin and pale hair. Or perhaps it’s just his presence that radiates everywhere he goes. Or maybe it’s just Damen, already gone far beyond the point of no return.

“You’re alive. That’s good,” Laurent comments, sitting in a chair on Damen’s right, trying to appear poised. He’s fidgeting with his left cuff though. 

“And here I thought I’d finally manage to get myself killed,” Damen jokes, but even his chuckle makes pain rip through his abdomen, and he winces.

Concern flashes on Laurent’s features. He hides it quickly, but not quickly enough. And still, some part of it remains, unguarded. Damen wonders if he’s letting himself be seen on purpose, or if he’s so shaken he can’t pretend as well as he tends to. 

With a smile, Laurent replies, “Good to see you too.” It’s so genuine it sends sparks in Damen’s heart, and suddenly the pain is only a memory. Something that doesn’t matter.

“Nikandros told me the man was apprehended.”

A nod. Laurent isn’t looking at him anymore, his gaze lost, going out the window. He doesn’t verbalize whatever is going on in his head. Instead, he lets silence settle for a few seconds, and then, ever so softly, whispers, “Thank you. Again.”

Damen waits until Laurent is looking back at him to reply, a small smile on his lips. “You’re welcome. Again.”

Laurent pushes back into his seat, a smirk on his features, diametrically opposed to his vulnerable expression only a second before. “Please do not make a habit of saving my life at the expense of yours. I would run out of favors soon.”

He wants to laugh, but he knows it’ll hurt too much, so he doesn’t, only grimacing instead. “Nikandros already gave me a sermon along the same lines,” he grunts. “But I can’t promise anything.” The meaning of his words isn’t as light as he tries to pretend it is. There’s a promise in there, and Laurent must feel it, because there’s tension between them now, an intensity, sizzling, that wasn’t there before. It’s like their magic is acting up on its own, Damen feeling sparks of what he usually sees as red velvet on his fingertips under his very skin. If he focuses hard enough, he thinks he can see the golden hue under Laurent’s paleness. But maybe he’s just imagining things.

“We need to talk,” Laurent says, breaking eye contact.

Damen feels like he’s just been drenched in cold water. On the other hand, he knows Laurent is right. They do need to talk. He’s been left in the dark long enough, and though the first time it would have only resulted in Laurent’s demise had he not intervened, this time he’s been directly implicated. Someone stabbed him in the abdomen, after all. 

“That man… was sent by my uncle.”

It isn’t a shock, only because Damen didn’t know what to expect. He’s still surprised. He’s about to ask why, when suddenly the reasons dawn on him. It’s only logic. If Laurent were to die without an heir, then his uncle would inherit the estate, and everything with it. Nicaise isn’t officially adopted in the family, so he’d get nothing. And from what Damen gathered about their uncle, through Auguste, years ago, and through Laurent in the unsaid words of their past conversation… he seems like a man who’d be willing to go to such lengths.

“I’m guessing the Marquess and Marchioness were, too.”

Laurent’s eyes widen. Maybe he’d thought Damen wouldn’t make the connection. But two attempts on Laurent’s integrity in the past month, it’s too much to be a coincidence. 

Dread fills him as Laurent nods. “They most likely were, though my uncle has hidden his involvement in both cases too well for tangible evidence to be found, unfortunately,” Laurent sighs, looking, if not quite distraught, at least mildly annoyed. “I am truly sorry that you took the brunt of his anger.”

“I did it willingly,” Damen insists. Because he did. Though he hates that he’s bedridden and fragile right now, he doesn’t regret one second trying to stop the assassin, even if it was a stupid idea to fight him bare handed.

“I know,” Laurent replies, but once again, his eyes say “ _Thank you._ ”

In the stale air of the chamber, their silence rings heavily. And then Damen says, fierce, “Your uncle needs to be imprisoned. Striped of his titles.”

Shaking his head, Laurent sighs again, “Didn’t you hear a word of what I just said? He made sure that he couldn’t be tied to both of these crimes, or any he might have perpetrated before that.”

“Then we need to either trick him, or frame him.”

The shock on Laurent’s face is even plainer than it was earlier. He’s watching Damen as though discovering a whole new person. Did he think him too pure of heart to try such maneuvers? Though he’s happy with his gentle baker reputation in the town, and his discreet one as an heir to the Akielos estate, Damen is neither dumb, nor an angel. If he needs to get his hands dirty, he will. Especially if it’ll help Laurent.

Very carefully, like he’s testing the words, too afraid to speak them out loud, Laurent says, “Alright.”

An unwritten pact. Damen feels more bound by it than he ever was by any legal contract, only because Laurent’s blue eyes are piercing right through him, trying to strip Damen to his bare bones, and he feels both equally on fire and frozen. He lets himself be studied, taking long, steadying breaths, concentrating back onto the pain in his side and the tiredness in his muscles, everything that will distract him from the gaze fixed on him.

“There’s something else I have to tell you.” The words cut through the silence, through the darkness of his eyes he’d unconsciously closed. Damen opens them back, and Laurent is still sitting there, appearing extremely tense. More than before, if it’s only possible. He frowns, wondering.

He moves a hand, trying to engage him. “Then please, speak freely.”

Laurent opens his mouth. Stops. Does it again. Suddenly, words fail him, and Damen’s dread only increases with each passing second. What terrible secret could it be, for him to be unable to voice it, after the plan they just conspired to put into motion. “It’s about… my power.” 

It seems to hurt, dragging the words out of his very own mouth. So Damen gives him time. He sits in silence, looking at him placidly. And he waits.

“It’s not… like yours,” Laurent starts, waving his hand without purpose. “It doesn’t bring joy to people, or at least it isn’t its purpose. It…”

A frustrated sigh. Laurent scowls at the wall. Starts again, in a completely different direction. “You remember that time at the library I took your hand and ordered you to drop the subject about my uncle?”

Ordered him seems like too strong a word, but Damen doesn’t voice his opposition. He remembers, and so he nods.

“You felt something then, right?”

Another nod. He did. It had tugged at his heart strings, a violent sensation, but not painful. “I felt the same thing that night. When you were with the Marchioness,” he feels compelled to add, for clarity. Because it seems important.

Laurent doesn’t seem surprised by the news. On the contrary. It makes sense to him. “I compel people,” he says, and it’s like he’s just let a boulder drop, his shoulders relaxing, his whole posture untensing. “I’m able to order people around, somewhat, with suggestions. Using my magic.” He’s grimacing. Like he’s disgusted with himself. “That’s my power. That’s what I use to steal from other nobles, or have them sign on treaties they might otherwise overlook. It’s how I make a fortune, and then redistribute it elsewhere, to people in need.”

The admission makes a lot of things clear. The way Laurent acted at the party, his charities, how he’s careful with each of his words. The thing it makes clearer still, is that Laurent is an amazing human being. And that Damen adores him. 

He tells him so. Vehemently. “Laurent, that’s…”

“Awful, I know.” Or at least he tries to, before Laurent cuts him. He’s moved his arms to wrap around himself, head turned away, like he’s already accepted whatever lynching he’s expecting from Damen. It breaks Damen’s heart into so many pieces he has to gather himself back for a few seconds.

Straining against his stitches even though it hurts, Damen leans forward, and pushes his hand against Laurent’s closest forearm. He waits until Laurent is looking back at him - until he can see the glaze of tears in his eyes - before he speaks. “Listen to me very carefully.” He tries to make the words as little threatening as he can manage, though he isn’t sure if it quite comes through, because Laurent still looks like he may bolt, or throw up, or both. “What you’re choosing to do with your magic, with a power that so many would exploit in such twisted ways, is a gift, Laurent,” he hammers, intense. “Is it illegal? Sure. Manipulative? Definitely. But is it making the world a better place? Is it helping tens, even hundreds of people, without hurting anything or anyone beside a small amount of some egocentric noble’s fortune? You’re doing what others would be too scared to do. You’re using your magic for good, Laurent. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

He’s winded, but he isn’t sure if it’s from the speech, or the fact that his side hurts like he’s being stabbed anew. But he can’t turn his eyes from Laurent, from the way he’s looking back at him, dumbfounded. Utterly lost. 

And then Laurent lurches forward, and Damen doesn’t get the time to draw back. But he doesn’t need to. Because Laurent is kissing him, fiercely, and Damen thinks he might faint, though whether from the pain or the satisfaction of knowing he’s kissing Laurent, he doesn’t know. He melts into the kiss, closes his eyes. Just enjoys it. The press of warm lips against his own, insistent. 

The moment he opens his mouth, willing to deepen the kiss, Laurent withdraws. He’s wincing, and a bit out of breath, and Damen immediately feels guilty, wondering if Laurent already regrets his impulse. He tries to apologize, but the next “I’m sorry,” isn’t from him. It’s from Laurent.

“That was… probably too much for you,” Laurent says. He looks at Damen’s bandages. “I hope you didn’t pull any stitches.”

The only answer Damen’s brain manages to supply is, “I wouldn’t mind pulling more if it meant kissing you again.” 

He regrets the words only for as long as it takes Laurent’s cheeks to deepen with red, his eyes fluttering, head turning to the side as if trying to hide the blush. Damen smiles. His head is turning a little, but maybe it’s blood loss, and not just the high he feels at having just kissed Laurent De Vere, of all people. 

Laurent’s next words are but a whisper, that Damen has to strain to hear. “I may allow you to do it again, if we manage to both get out alive of my uncle’s manipulations.” It’s meant as a joke, but it dampens the mood. Laurent’s gaze is back to steel, a frown on his features. Damen lets his back rest against the pillows once more, and takes a deep breath.

“What’s your plan?” he asks. Because Laurent obviously has a plan.

**

“For the record, I hate this plan,” Jord groans, glaring at Laurent.

“Duly noted,” Laurent answers. It’s not like he likes it much better. He’d say he hates it too, if he didn’t know that would only make Jord more nervous. He had enough of Damianos lecturing him from his hospital bed last week, and then again when they had their reunion to organize their next moves a couple of days ago.

The plan isn’t the only reason Jord is pissed. Their gathering is, as well, though not for the same reasons. Because when Laurent made his plan to get back at his uncle clear, he also informed everyone around the table - all his closest men, the only ones who would have known his schedule - that there was, if not a mole, then someone that definitely needed to shut their mouth up for a while, among them. 

The room had fallen silent, everyone unmoving. Laurent had looked at each of them in turn. They’d already convicted the assassin by then, and found the only acolyte they could link him to, a man that had gone to Damianos’ shop for bread, asking a few pointed questions about his schedule, but they’d deduced he must have already been tipped by someone on the inside of Laurent’s manor as to their master’s whereabouts on Monday. So Laurent let Damianos describe the man, and watched as everyone squirmed.

Well, everyone except Jord and Nicaise, Damianos and Nikandros. Damianos and Nikandros, for obvious reasons. Jord, because he didn’t like talking to people, and he would never, ever, dare speak about anything concerning Laurent for fear that something like this would happen. Nicaise, because Nicaise didn’t care, or tried to appear like he didn’t care. Laurent knew it wasn’t him anyway. 

And then Aimeric looked at Jord for a second too long, and Laurent knew. He knew before Aimeric bent his head, trembling, and admitted he’d talked with an amiable peasant he’d seen a couple of times without thinking too much of it. And he’d maybe let slip that Laurent was going out in the forest on said Monday.

Aimeric had looked so miserable, everyone around the table shocked, appalled, or just angry. And then there had been Jord. Jord, whose face had never displayed as much emotion as it did that night. It went from surprise to doubt to hatred to hurt to forgiving, cycling through them again and again, until he rose and left, without a word. Aimeric didn’t even try to follow him.

There was no punishment, of course. Aimeric was a good person, at heart, and his had been a genuine mistake. The fact that he felt so apologetic, and that Jord would likely not even speak to him for the next few weeks, were reminder enough of the life he’d nearly cost Laurent, and most importantly Damianos.

Laurent shakes his head, anchoring himself back into reality. 

He stares at his uncle’s house - it isn’t quite the De Vere manor, but it’s still big, made bigger by the staff that’s much more numerous there. He recapitulates his route one last time with Jord, who is still scowling, and then he takes one last deep breath, filling his lungs so full it hurts. Releases. And he walks up to the gates.

The guards don’t trouble him, only because he’s alone, and his uncle must have warned them, after the letter Laurent sent over. They let him pass the gates, and then the main doors. Laurent’s heart beats harder when he passes the kitchen. He stops for small talk, some light suggestion when he can discreetly achieve it, away from prying eyes. And then he’s taken to his uncle’s parlor. All his muscles seize, his body trying to stop him. But his mind is more powerful. He walks on, and manages not to vomit.

“Laurent,” his uncle greets, fake smile on his face, fake wealth on his fingers, fake art on his walls. Everything fake. But the worst thing he’s ever faked is his innocence. And today, Laurent will bring that to an end.

“Uncle,” he replies, not as deferent as he’s supposed to be.

His uncle smiles wider, wicked. “I was surprised by your letter. Asking for a direct confrontation, that’s so far from your usual cowardice.”

“Maybe I finally grew the backbone you hassled me about all those years ago,” Laurent snickers, and he hates that his voice is shaking, but he can’t help it. He balls his fist harder. Pain settles him. 

“Maybe indeed,” his uncle nods. “Though the fact that you’re still only ever using your power for pesky charity cases would prove otherwise.”

There’s no reply that wouldn’t satisfy his uncle, so Laurent says nothing. He just watches the man as he paces, relaxed, looking at some sheet of paper, picking an apple to chew on.

“I don’t know how you manage to sleep at night, knowing everything you’ve done,” Laurent seethes suddenly, unable to stop himself.

He was right. It makes his uncle joyful, seeing him unleashed in that way, incapable to hold back his emotions. “I do sleep quite well, nephew. You should try murder, maybe it would suit you.”

“So you do admit it, then? To murdering my parents? Trying to murder me? Rap… torturing Nicaise?” He can’t say those words. He can’t. He swallows, and watches as delight spreads further on this wretch of a man’s face.

“I do! But what can you do about it, Laurent? It’s your word against mine. No one except your friends will believe you.” He’s right. And it hurts. But the next words hurt further. “They would have believed Auguste,” his uncle snickers.

Laurent pauses, and takes a second to calm himself. He can’t get angry. It’ll only make things more messy. But he can play his part. He walks up to his uncle, so suddenly the man doesn’t move, only backs away at the last second, but it’s already too late. By then, Laurent has grasped his wrist, and says, imperious, “You will go to the authorities, and you will surrender yourself. You will admit your crimes. All of them.”

The magic blazes at his fingertips, and snakes around his uncle’s arm, alight with power.

Silence. It stretches and stretches and stretches. And then his uncle laughs, full bellied, and though Laurent knew what to expect, it still hurts. 

“Oh, nephew, you know your words don’t work on me,” the man says. He’s still laughing when he bends toward Laurent, so close, too close, able to be heard even though he’s whispering. “After all, I’m the one who taught you, Laurent. I’m the one who made you.”

Memories are drumming at the back of Laurent’s head, of himself, happy, with Auguste, using his magic to help him make sense of his feelings and his ideas, doing the same with his friends or his father. Bringing joy around him, golden sizzling around his body, but never hurting, never twisting, never meddling with someone’s mind more than the person ever wanted to. Souvenirs of when others’ magic didn’t have such an effect on him.

But Laurent doesn’t have time to unpack any of this. From the corner of his eye, he sees his uncle’s hand - the one that isn’t holding the apple, the one that isn’t currently into Laurent’s grasp - move back, and then slash forward. Laurent moves at the last second, the glint of metal shining in his face, in his eyes, as the dagger misses him. Barely.

“You thought after all the trouble I went to to have you killed, I wouldn’t take you up on this opportunity?” his uncle asks, face grown somber. “I don’t care who you told. You could’ve informed the authorities you were to be here today, and that you might come to harm, and I still wouldn’t care. Half of them I can pay off, and the others don’t matter. And that’s only if they ever manage to find your body here, which they won’t.” He readies himself for another stab at Laurent, grip on the dagger steady.

“Whatever you’re paying the police, I doubt it’s half as much as what both your nephew and I can provide them with.” A voice rises in the room, and from the back door, Damianos emerges, arms crossed, smile on his lips. Laurent has never been more pleased to see him, not even when he saw him alive in the hospital bed. “And even if you did, there’s only so much money can do, against proof.”

Laurent’s uncle pauses only long enough to size Damianos up, and resumes his gloating. “Proof? What proof?” he asks, tension in his voice, though he’s trying to pretend otherwise. He’s forgotten about the dagger in his hand, and Laurent uses his distraction to seize his uncle’s wrist and bend it, making him drop the knife into Laurent’s left hand. He throws it into his right, quickly, and suddenly he’s the one threatening, his uncle at his mercy.

But his uncle barely budges. Instead, he’s focused on the vial that Damianos produces out of his pocket. “Infiltrating your kitchen wasn’t half as hard as I thought it would be. And it turns out that when you treat people with respect, they will more readily help you. In your case, half your cooks were more than happy to point me to the poison you had the Marquess and Marchioness use on Laurent.” He’s shaking the vial, purple liquid sloshing against its side. Damning evidence.

The man scoffs, though he can’t quite hide his chest heaving with anxiety. “You can’t prove this is the poison that was used! And you can’t prove that I knew about it, or that I’m the one that ordered them to use it!” He tries to move forward, perhaps to snatch the poison out of Damianos’ hands, perhaps for something else entirely. 

Laurent aims the knife at his jugular. “Please, do give me a reason to use this against you. It would be my pleasure,” he growls.

His uncle glares at him. Damianos waits until they’re done before he keeps on, dismantling every single one of the man’s claims, like they’d trained to do around the meeting table days earlier, Laurent knowing his uncle wouldn’t go down without a fight, even faced with his very own doom. “Actually, we can prove most of that. The authorities and your nephew have been working on finding out which poison was used on him, exactly, and we already talked to suppliers a few days ago. Turns out you’re the only one who purchased this very strain. It’s unlucky that you needed a magical one, they’re so rare, after all,” Damianos taunts, and Laurent can see the anger in his eyes, can feel it in the way he’s holding himself, muscles taut. “So you had to be the one to provide it to the Marquess and the Marchioness. And though they weren’t willing to betray you before, thinking you’d manage to have them out in no time… your arrest might make them more voluble. Maybe they’ll even strike a deal.”

There’s genuine fear in his uncle’s eyes now. Laurent would be ecstatic, if being so close to him didn’t make him miserable. “You’ve lost,” he says.

Magic sizzles in the air, and the hair on the back of Laurent’s neck stands up straight. His uncle’s eyes are shining with both madness and power as they lock into his own. And then he falls to the ground.

Damianos holds one of the heaviest books Laurent has ever seen in his hand. No wonder his uncle fell under the weight of it, combined with the force of Damianos’ strike. It would probably have knocked out a horse.

The knife that’s still in his shaky hand drops to the floor with a clatter, and Laurent only manages a few steps before he plummets into a chair, legs giving out, head spinning with adrenaline. Damianos stands beside him, watching him with concern, without daring coming too close. The poison vial is on the desk beside them, their salvation and Laurent’s nightmare.

“Thank you,” Laurent whispers, heartbeat clattering in his chest, wondering if his uncle would have killed him, if he’d had the time, or if his very first plan had worked. He knows it’s not good to dwell on the morbid idea, but if he lets any free reign to his mind, he knows the memories and their implications will come back. It’s already haunting him. His uncle’s words.

“ _I’m the one who made you._ ”

A hand, on his. Laurent jumps, withdrawing instinctively, until he realizes it’s Damianos, carefully reaching out to him, asking him if he’s alright. Laurent cannot, in good conscience, answer that question with anything but a lie. So he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head, and takes a deep breath. Because he isn’t alright. Because his power hisses at his fingertips, a twisted, monstrous thing, and because magic makes him sick, and his uncle knew, and his uncle knew. He knew, because Laurent used to be young and gullible, and he let himself be manipulated, his magic made anew. His magic corrupted.

His whole body is shaking now, mind collapsing in on itself. He barely hears Damianos’ voice, or Jord, or the guards who come running inside, and bind his uncle and drag him away to be imprisoned until trial. His ears are ringing. His heartbeat is erratic.

Finally, Laurent manages to convince his own muscles to move. He rises from the chair, pretends like he isn’t staggering, and leaves the room to go and vomit. And then he just leaves the manor, and doesn’t look back.

**

Damen hasn’t heard from Laurent in days. 

Actually, he hasn’t heard from him since Laurent walked out on everyone in his uncle’s parlor, looking ill. Jord updated him hours later to tell him he was alive, but beside that… there hasn’t been a word. Or there have been too many words. Rumors only, at first, of the man’s arrest, even all the way to Marlas, and of his involvement in the attempts on Laurent’s life, and his probable culpability in the murder of his and Auguste’s parents. And then the Marquess and Marchioness had flipped, just like they thought they would, knowing they’d strike a better deal, and the rumors had been confirmed, and the world around the De Vere family erupted into chaos. 

Suddenly everyone was pressing at their gates. Not only the nobles, who were already annoying enough, but would be reporters, or peasants, trying to get a glimpse of the heir that survived. Trying and failing. For what Damen knew, Laurent hadn’t left the property since he’d been brought back there three days ago.

It’s much calmer, on his hand of things. After he gave his deposition, he went back to work as if nothing happened. The stories don’t say that he was a main actor on the stage of Laurent’s uncle undoing, because no one but the cooks knew, and they’re all gone as far away from the place as they can. So he’s stuck in his bakery, trying to pretend that everything is fine. Burning up inside.

Nikandros must hate him. If anything, he’s done with the brooding, because at some point, when they’re taking a small break to breathe, he throws a towel into Damen’s face without warning. Hard. “You’re moping, Lord Damianos,” he teases, sounding accusing.

“Am I?” Damen asks, sarcastically. Of course he’s moping. Who wouldn’t be moping, in his situation?

Nikandros sighs. “Instead of wandering around like a kicked puppy, scaring all the clients, why don’t you do something?”

“Like what? Showing up at the manor? I’m not even sure he wants me there, and even if he did, it’s swarming with people, they don’t need more rumors as to what I’m doing there, everyone already suspects there’s something going on between us.”

“Isn’t there?” Nikandros’ raised eyebrow is impressive. Damen would immediately spill all his secrets to him, if he hadn’t already done so. Nik knows about the kiss. Which is exactly why he’s annoying Damen about it.

Damen throws the towel back at him, though not as violently. “Shut up.”

“Unlikely,” Nikandros hums, self-satisfied. He seems to think for a few seconds, and then, considering his friend’s misery, adds, “You know, you could just write him another note. I’d even accept to deliver it for you, as part of my usual duties. Nothing suspicious about that.”

Nikandros is right, because of course he is. But then, Damen doesn’t even know what he might say. He doesn’t know what went through Laurent’s head that day, only that they were successful, but the man had seemed anything but. 

On the other hand, words aren’t Damen’s gift.

He rises, and moves, Nikandros hailing him to know what’s happening. “I’m going to bake!” Damen replies, joyful.

“In the middle of the day?” Nikandros wonders, half screaming in annoyance. “What about the counter?” 

“Good luck!”

*

The cake he bakes isn’t the best looking one he’s ever done, by far. It annoys him, but then honey cakes aren’t supposed to appear particularly decadent. He’s glad of the way it smells, and, since he tried the paste earlier, of the way it tastes. That’s all that matters.

One of the banes of Damen’s life was always that he couldn’t taste his own magic. Just like most people’s magic doesn’t affect them, his is a mystery to him. No matter how much his entourage praised him for his skills, for how delicious everything he cooked ever was, to him, it never compared to what his mom made. Because there wasn’t magic to blur the lines. But this cake… this one tastes nearly as good as his mom’s did. Hopefully, with a little magical push, it’ll be enough to make amends. For whatever he did wrong.

He packages it as securely as he can, and catches Nikandros right before his last run of the day. He pleads with him for a few minutes to deliver this cake first on his tour, only because he means for the cake to still be warm when Laurent tries it. Nikandros, ever the greatest friend, agrees. Damen doesn’t deserve him. 

And then he waits, with bated breath. He knows he won’t have news today, because this time there won’t be a note for Nikandros to bring back, and he won’t have time to stop and chat, or only maybe with Lazar in the kitchen, for a minute or two. But still, Damen is there when Nikandros comes back, ready to hear anything he has to say.

“I didn’t see Laurent,” he starts, obviously trying to placate Damen.

“I know.”

“Or Jord.”

“I know.”

“I did see Lazar, but only for a few seconds.”

Damen grunts. “Nik, please stop drawing out the suspense and just get on with it,” he pleads.

“Lazar told me Laurent was alright, physically speaking,” Nikandros sighs, shaking his head. “But he’s been hiding in his rooms for the past few days, only getting out when someone needs to question him or when Nicaise insists he take a walk outside.”

His mood sours at Nikandros’ words. Damen isn’t surprised, not really. Whatever affected Laurent last time seemed big, bigger than him or anyone else, but it still pains him to know the man is holing up somewhere, avoiding everything and everyone. 

Sitting down, Damen huffs. “Well, I hope that the cake will at least cheer him up.”

**

Someone knocks on his door. From the pattern, Laurent guesses it’s Ancel. He’s kind of glad about it. Jord has been insufferable since he still isn’t reconciled with Aimeric, he can’t look Nicaise in the eye without seeing his uncle and freezing, and Lazar is just a pain in the ass, acting all concerned and lost. So all in all, Ancel and his smugness and assholeness are just what he needs.

“What do you want?” he asks when the man lets himself in without awaiting Laurent’s agreement. Because of course he would.

Ancel puts something down on the desk, to his right. “Just something that was brought for you,” he says, sounding softer than he usually does, and Laurent thinks that maybe even Ancel can’t be trusted for a shred of normalcy in here. But then he actually looks at the package, and he doesn’t speak further. He allows Ancel to leave without a word. 

Even though he knows there are layers of baskets and boxes, the smell is drifting to him, making his mouth water. But Laurent’s heart is squeezing painfully in his chest. He imagines Damen, waiting for him. For a word, for a sign, for _anything_. And yet all Laurent has done these past few days is answer prying questions into his past, and try to make sense of his life, and especially his uncle’s influence on him. It’s been painful, and painstakingly slow. He’s felt like giving up more time than he can count. But he needs to do this. For himself, if for nobody else.

Maybe he can give himself a break though. He thinks he smells honey, and he can feel Damianos’ magic from afar, something he craves. He unwraps the cake, until he can see the glazed surface, the gorgeous color of the cooked batter. Definitely honey cake, though it seems Damianos gave a twist to his version, since honey and sugar aren’t the only scents Laurent can pick up, though he can’t quite identify the others yet. 

He debates with himself for all of ten seconds before he gathers a spoon and furiously digs into the cake. He blinks at it once, inspecting it, letting the anticipation build in himself. And then he bites into it.

Strangely the magic isn’t as violent as it used to be. It’s still there, still very much potent, a warmth sipping into his bones and his mind, enhancing everything, and especially the small curl of happiness that starts at his stomach, but it isn’t like a punch to the gut anymore. Laurent wonders if maybe, his feelings for Damianos might have altered the way he reacts to his magic.

Eating alone in his chambers, he unwinds for the first time in days. He isn’t thinking about his uncle, about their plan, about his past, about Auguste or Nicaise or all the worries he has. He’s just tasting formidable food. And thinking about Damianos. 

_Shit._

Maybe Laurent is in love with Damianos.

*

It takes him two more days before he feels enough like his usual self, ready to get back in the outside world. Two days he spent searching within himself, sorting through his feelings, his memories, and everything in between.

Nicaise is the first to greet him, and Laurent has to hide his surprise when the teenager wraps his arms around his middle and squeezes. Pain instantly strikes Laurent’s heart, both for making Nicaise worry, and because, more than anyone, Nicaise needed his support these past few days. Still needs it. If his uncle twisted Laurent into only a shadow of his former self, what he did to Nicaise was crueler still, and won’t leave him as easily as Laurent’s demons have. So Laurent hugs him back, for what feels like an eternity. And he murmurs soothing words in his ears and wipes away the silent tears. And does everything he promised Nicaise he would do. He protects him. He cares for him. He loves him.

In the past two days, it seems Jord and Aimeric made up, because they’re sitting together in an armchair, Aimeric in Jord’s lap, reading over a book with soft smiles on their faces. They tense when he walks in, but Laurent smiles at them, and it seems like suddenly all is forgotten. It’s not like he wants to waste any more time being mad at his family. He spent all of his hate on his uncle. He has none left, and doesn’t desire to find any more back. 

When he looks out the window, he can still see a crowd beyond his gates. It has dwindled in the last couple of days, only a few curious passers-by stopping here and there, and still the same reporters that he didn’t give any interview to, because the police already have all they needed, and the rumors will spread soon enough, once his uncle’s trial starts. Laurent sighs.

He moves to the back of the manor, puts on a cloak, some gloves, because even though it isn’t snowing yet, the weather outside is still growing cold. Lazar raises an eyebrow when he sees him walking out of the back, toward the stables, but he only waves at him and wishes him luck. Laurent thanks him with a nod.

His mare huffs at him when he steps into her stable, and pushes him around, as if to signify she’s mad at him for forgetting about her for the past week. Berenger came a couple of times to work out most of her energy, but it’s not quite the same as with Laurent, and they’re both aware of it. He gives her a kiss on the muzzle and some stale bread to apologize, and she only grunts a couple more times before he can pet and saddle her. She still kicks a few times into the air once he’s sitting on her back though, just for good measure. Laurent laughs.

He takes the back road, the one Damianos used for their would be meeting. There are people still on it at this time of day, but they’re few and far between, and with his hood up, no one bats an eye when he passes them. He’s thankful for the anonymity, as short lived as it’ll be. Because once he crosses back into the city, he’s sure someone will notice his mare, or himself, and then he’ll be ambushed before he can reach his destination.

But he must give himself too much credit, or people have already grown disinterested with his story - which would be insulting if it wasn’t so convenient - because he trots up to one of the main roads without even one whisper of his name, and then he’s blending in with other riders. He has to dismount when they cross from dirt to pavement, rendered slippery by the freezing cold outside. He leaves his mare to a stable boy, paying him a good fee and telling him to feed her as much hay as she desires. She deserves it.

The walk to the bakery is even more unnerving than the ride was. He’s suspicious of everyone and everything, but he knows it’s not the fear of discovery that’s making his heart beat such a hammering rhythm. Instead it’s another fear, more uncertain, and not ground in reality, that takes hold over him. He gulps down.

Outside the bakery there are a few people queuing. Not much, given that they will be closed in a few minutes. Laurent waits until the last one goes inside, and comes back out. He waits, fingers trembling, until he can see the silhouette behind the counter move out and forward, presumably to turn the sign on the door and the key in the lock. And so he enters. 

Damianos moves back in surprise, right before the door catches him in the nose. He blinks a few times, anger flashing and fading quickly, and he’s no doubt about to admonish Laurent, when Laurent drops his hood. And then Damianos’ mouth just hangs open in surprise. It would be satisfying to watch, if Laurent’s whole being wasn’t so tensed over nothing.

“I… What… _Laurent_?” he gasps, the name a whisper, sounding nearly like a prayer out of his mouth.

Laurent lets the feeling that he’s out of place, that he doesn’t deserve to be here, wash over him. He takes a deep breath, and smiles, genuine. “Thank you for the cake,” he says.

It takes a few seconds more of Damianos blinking and unfreezing, before he answers. “You’re welcome.” He takes a few steps back, to give Laurent space, which he appreciates, though he finds there’s a sudden lack of warmth. “You didn’t need to come all the way here, though, you could have sent a note.”

Laurent knows Damianos is trying to spare his feelings, to be considerate, but it hurts a little to hear those words. “I wanted to be here,” he replies, trying to convey as best as he can that he does, and that it means a lot to him.

If Damianos’ blush is anything to go by, it works. He shakes his head, and moves his hand, pointing to the back of the shop. “Please, come around,” he says. “I was just about to close up. We’ll be more comfortable at my place, if it’s alright with you.” He seems bashful even suggesting it.

Alright? It’s more than alright. Laurent has been curious about the way Damianos lives in the city - he knows he owns a small house, knows its exact address even, but it felt like too much to ambush him in there, or even pass in front of it pretending otherwise - for weeks now. He’s looking forward to exploring his den.

Damianos stops the ovens and clears everything without a word, obviously concentrating on his tasks, and Laurent watches him, trying to pretend he isn’t very attracted by the competence he displays when handling all the equipment, or by the way his muscles move under his thin shirt. He only needs to take a settling deep breath once in ten minutes. He counts that as a win.

Still without a word, Damianos walks him back to his house. His hands are in his coat, attempting to protect him from the biting cold without gloves, and he’s puffing breathes of hot air and watching them form into condensation with a twinkle of childish delight. Laurent has to hide his smile into his own coat.

It’s only once they’re inside, and divested from their outer layers, that Damianos speaks, preventing Laurent from quietly taking in his home. “Are you well?” he asks, sounding genuinely worried. Because he is. 

His reply doesn’t come quick. He has to dissect between what he can say, what he wants to say, and what he needs to say. But it all feels like so much, so early in their relationship. Is it even a relationship? They haven’t talked about the kiss since it happened. They’ve barely looked at each other in the days leading up to the confrontation with his uncle, stolen glances on both sides. It feels strange to even consider sharing such a hidden part of himself with Damianos. And yet… he wants to.

“I’m sorry I disappeared.” He sees Damianos open his mouth, probably to tell him it’s alright, but Laurent raises a hand. “I mean it. It wasn’t very responsible of me to go missing after what happened. But I needed time to myself, and so… I took it.”

Damianos nods. He moves to sit on his sofa in silence, eyes briefly going to the spot beside him. For this conversation, however, Laurent can’t be close to him. If he is, he fears he’ll collapse in a crying mess, or surrender to the warmth of Damianos’ arms. He needs to be strong. So instead, he sits in the opposite armchair, trying to convey with his smile that it isn’t against Damianos. 

“What do you know about my uncle?” he asks, abruptly, the question burning his lips.

He sees Damianos hesitate, think over his answer. “Not much, actually. Auguste told me he was estranged from your family, though he never elaborated. He seemed angry with him for a while, and there was always a stillness about the way he mentioned him and… your parents,” he admits in a soft voice. “Between what your brother told me, and the rumors, I figured there might have been some involvement there.”

Laurent nods. What he’s about to ask, and the answers he will give next, he knows they will hurt. But he also needs to share this with Damianos. Not only to help build the relationship he hopes to see stem between them, but because he hasn’t told anyone, beside his staff. His friends. His family.

“My uncle, as you may have guessed, wasn’t a nice person, and that’s the understatement of the century. I didn’t come to care for Nicaise out of the blue, you know.” He gulps, and takes a deep breath, steeling his voice and his resolve. “My uncle… he abused him. Not for long, but Nicaise was still young, and it left a lasting impression on him. I… I guess you can say I saved him. That’s how he ended up in my care.”

On the sofa, Damianos is gripping one of the cushions so hard Laurent worries they might explode. He stays perfectly still otherwise, only his fury-filled face and his taut muscles any indication of what he might be feeling.

“Did he…” Damianos clears his throat, and Laurent tenses, knowing what’s coming next. “Did he do that to you, as well?” 

It’s not the first time he hears the question. Ancel had asked it with his usual tact, which is none, and Laurent nearly slapped him, Berenger only managing to get his lover away from him at the last second, admonishing the young man for his indelicacy, profusely apologizing to Laurent. It doesn’t anger him as much as it had then. But it still hurts. Though he guesses it’s legitimate, with the tension Damianos must have felt in the room, when he and his uncle were there.

Laurent shakes his head, and he can see Damianos’ breathing pattern stabilize. “He did not. Though what he did to me was just as cruel.” If not crueler. He’d never speak the words, because he loathes himself for even thinking them. Thinking his suffering above what Nicaise felt. But the realization of what happened to him is still so new, so fresh, that even he can’t blame himself for hurting so.

“How so?” Damianos asks, leaning forward. He’s making his hand ostensibly available. Laurent wants to take it. Gods, he wants to take it so bad. 

“The reason I fled the scene… it was because I realized, then, what happened to me, all those years ago.” He gives himself a few seconds to gather his thoughts, form a coherent explanation out of all the memories and feelings he’s collected over the past few days. “My power, you’ve seen it in action. But it has consequences. Magic hurts me. It affects me more than it does others, and even the smallest parts of it become more potent, and, most importantly, more painful.” It’s the first time he’s admitted the weakness to anyone besides Jord. Not even Nicaise knows of his predicament. It always made Laurent shameful, knowing he wasn’t normal.

“My pies…” Damianos stares in horror, visibly paling.

“No, no!” Laurent hurries to stop him. “Actually, that was… that was the first time in years that magic felt good for me,” he admits, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He turns his head away, not ready to face Damianos’ reaction, though he hears his sudden intake of breath.

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He still has a story to tell. “That’s why the poison was more potent on me. That’s why I’ve avoided public eye as much as possible. If the secret got out, I would have been doomed.”

Anyone could have slipped an attraction filter into a drink, or a poison like at the party, and he would have either fallen in love for the former, or dropped dead for the latter. It was so easy to exploit such a weakness. Though it had been hard, going through his old memories, Laurent was glad that at least, this was behind him.

“I grew to think I was just abnormal. Broken. But something my uncle said that time… about how he’d made me… it resonated with me,” he says, still not quite looking at Damianos. “Because I could remember a time where magic was just that. Magic. Good or bad, it only depended on the intent of the user, never on the magic itself. Ten years ago, playing with someone with mild psychic powers didn’t mean I would end up with a blood hemorrhage. It just meant maybe they’d read my childish thoughts, and embarrass me in public.” A sad laugh erupts from his lips, one he quickly clamps down on. “Ten years ago, I didn’t try to control people’s actions through suggestion. Instead, I helped my friends, my brother first and foremost, sort through their most nebulous thoughts, gave them epiphanies or just a feeling of contentment, if and when they needed it. And always, always with their consent. Even as a child, I understood how important it was to the process.”

Damianos stares at him for a few seconds, his head no doubt spinning. And then he says, “Your uncle twisted your power. Tainted your magic.”

Laurent nods.

“He made you use your gift for suggestion - suggestion of happiness, or of trails of thoughts people don’t usually bother to look into - to cheat and trick others. To command them. He made it a weapon.”

Again, a nod. Laurent’s throat feels dry, and so he rises and goes to the kitchen counter that is only a few feet away, gets a clean glass out of the cabinets, and pours himself some water, which he downs in a couple of gulps. It doesn’t help.

He turns back to Damianos, pushing his hips against the counter, crossing his arms in an attempt to protect himself from his own self-inflicted pain. “He did.”

“And that twist, that corruption, it corrupted your response to magic as well.”

Damianos’ brain is truly a feat of glory. Laurent wouldn’t have realized any of this, hadn’t his uncle felt the need to gloat about it. And yet, here is this man, with barely any knowledge of his past, putting the pieces together as if it requires no effort at all. He’s truly a masterpiece. “It did,” Laurent admits again.

Chin in hand, Damianos thinks for a while, and Laurent can nearly see the cogs turning in his brain. A very faint smile stretches one corner of his lips, his heart still beating erratically, but gradually soothing itself. 

“But then, if twisting your power twisted your magic, and your response to it, wouldn’t untwisting it have the opposite effect?” he asks.

Laurent’s smile grows still. “That’s what I spent the last couple of days figuring out,” he admits, words barely audible. His hope is so fragile still, he’s afraid the world will shatter if he speaks too high. 

He can see the same hope reflect in Damianos’ eyes, and his heart swells. Because this man he barely knows, who saved his life twice already, and who’s bewitched him, body and soul, is just as eager, if not more, for Laurent’s recovery. For the happiness it implies for him. “And?” he asks with baited breath.

Finally, Laurent walks back. He allows himself to sit on the sofa, and stare straight in Damianos’ beautiful brown eyes. And he smiles. “Would you like me to show you?”

Damianos’ nod is eager, and Laurent laughs, his first genuine laugh in days. It feels like bubbles bursting into his chest. “No, but I actually need your full and explicit consent. I’m going to try and share some soothing and happy feelings with you. You might feel euphoric afterward, if memory serves. Are you alright with me doing that to you?” Speaking those words, strangely, frees him. He spent nearly a decade dictating other’s feelings and actions, and getting to ask for consent, especially from someone that isn’t in his close circle, it shakes something in his core.

Damianos nods again, and then realizes he must speak the words. “I do consent. You can do to me whatever you would like,” he blurts out, and immediately clamps his mouth shut, a gorgeous blush spreading high on his cheekbones, making Laurent want to kiss them. 

Instead, he laughs again, and gently takes Damianos’ hand in his. “Alright.”

It takes him a little time, to reconnect with his magic. The very first time he tried, a few days ago, he thought he never would find it. It was five minutes in, and Jord was looking at him with worry, when, finally, the spark was there. It’s easier today. He can feel it tickle under the surface of his skin, and he grasps it, gently, and pours it between his fingers and into Damianos’.

Strange, what twisting someone’s magic can do to them. Laurent is still so accustomed to his old ways, to having to force his entry in, to the drain of power it requires, and this feels so different. There’s the joy, first. For him to spread it, he must experience it as well, though not as keenly as his recipient. But it’s there, still. A light feeling, soothing his mind and soul. 

And then there’s the fact that the person on the other side is perfectly willing to receive whatever he’s sharing. It makes the connection that much more intimate, like a light thread between one heart and the next, something he can pull, or, like right now, extend over. It’s that much more potent with Damianos, the way his own magic feels, and the way it pours out of him, and Laurent shouldn’t be surprised, except he is. 

Laurent opens his eyes to find Damianos’ own are closed, a smile on his lips. He’s glowing, and not just in the metaphorical sense. There’s gold surrounding his head, like an angel descended from up above, and Laurent is so stricken with affection that he nearly lets go of Damianos’ hand. Instead, he presses a little bit harder, making the man open his eyes. He’s laughing, the joy having spread to him, and Laurent is sure that the lightness he feels in his own chest is equally as great in Damianos.

Laughs upon laughs escape the baker, ringing clear into his home, making everything around them a bit fuzzy, except for the place their hands join, and each other’s faces, both illuminated by a magical glow. Laurent blinks. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and he lets himself bask into the glory of it for a minute more.

When he releases Damianos’ hand, he feels like he’s been born anew. 

“Wow, that was…” there are no words to describe the experience they’ve just lived, and Damianos must realize it, because he stops talking, and just stares.

He stares at Laurent for so long he fears he might have broken him. But he also doesn’t miss the adoration in his eyes, making heat spiral into his gut. 

Laurent starts leaning forward, every so slightly. He’s caught off guard, however, when Damianos swoops in and claims his mouth in a feverish kiss. Their lips lock, and Laurent melts into Damianos’ arms, lets himself savor the touch and the brush of their mouths and Damianos’ hands on his back and neck. Shivers run down his spine, his own hand going to bury into dark curls, pulling just hard enough to elicit a groan from Damianos’ mouth. Laurent smiles into the kiss.

They stay like this, moving softly against each other, savoring the moment, for what feels like eternity. Both are breathless when they emerge, and Laurent is pleased by the red high on Damianos’ cheeks as well as painting his mouth, and by the frantic heartbeat he can feel under his palm. 

Silence. It fills the room, but it isn’t uncomfortable, and Laurent slumps into Damianos’ side, his head resting on the man’s shoulder, trying to gain back enough willpower to speak a coherent sentence. 

Damianos gets there before he does. He takes the side of Laurent’s face into his palm, cupping it so gently Laurent would ask him if he’s afraid he’s going to break, were it not for his brain being too muddled at the moment. Their eyes cross path again, intense. “Laurent,” Damianos says, his voice low and gravely, sending goosebumps all over his skin. “Will you let me court you? Properly?” He’s nearly pleading.

Laurent blinks only once, and then he’s moving, straddling Damianos’ lap. “Yes,” he breathes, delight in his voice just as it is plain on his face. “ _Yes_ ,” he says again, lowering himself to seal the deal with another breathtaking kiss. Damianos complies.

**

He’s barely crossed the bakery threshold, on the next day, when Nikandros corners him.

“Well, shit, did you get in a fight or something?” he asks. And then, upon closer inspection, “Oh. Not a fight. Definitely not a fight. Damn, I didn’t think Lord De Vere moved that fast,” he whistles.

Damen blushes, and glares at him, covering the right side of his neck. “It’s one hickey, Nik. And we just kissed. I’ve actually engaged in a proper courtship with him, if you must know.”

“It’s not just one hickey, you idiot. Your mouth is swollen, your hair is a mess, and you put your shirt on backwards this morning,” Nikandros says, half-judgmental, half-laughing. Damen looks down, and his shirt is indeed backwards. “But I’m glad about the courtship. Though if it impacts your work in any way, I will kick your ass, be sure of it.”

“Understood,” Damen nods.

And then Nikandros hugs him, and congratulates him some more, and if Damen wasn’t already euphoric from his evening with Laurent, he would be the most happy person on Earth right at this moment.

As he told Nik, they’d only kissed yesterday. Laurent had agreed to the courtship, and they’d messed around a while before Laurent’s stomach growled, and Damen offered to cook for him. They spent the evening eating and talking, and then Laurent had to go back home, and Damen’s heart had broken a little, until Laurent told him “I’ll see you soon,” with a mischievous smile, and all had been forgotten. He’d gotten close to no sleep, both because he’d gone to bed late and because once there, his excitement had prevented his brain from letting go, but it was all well worth it. Well except he’d put his shirt on backwards his morning. And forgot to brush his hair.

He turns the shirt around and fixes his hair in a couple of minutes, and then he gets to work. He manages not to burn anything, even though he’s still plenty distracted with thoughts from yesterday. It must even affect his magic, because when a customer tries one of his buns on his way out of the bakery, he stops, moans, and then turns to Damen with starlight in his eyes. “What did you do to those?” he asks, mouth still half-full, and Damen blinks and shakes his head, telling him he has no idea.

Though he does. And he’s pretty sure the reason is human shaped.

*

The trial of Laurent’s uncle happens a couple of weeks later. It’s a quick affair, mostly because evidence is so damning against him, and the Marquess’ and Marchioness’ testimonies help to rush the sentence on. They only spend two days in hearings, Damen waiting on the side-lines, watching as Laurent painfully recounts only parts of his past, as well as what happened today. He doesn’t speak of his power, what his uncle did to it, and what he used it for. No one asks him, thankfully.

His uncle is found guilty of trying to assassinate Laurent, as well as conspiring against his parents. They have nothing on Auguste’s death - and possible murder -, and so the charges aren’t added to the final verdict, but everyone is still convinced as to his involvement in it.

Once the trial is done, on the last day, Laurent and Damen walk out of court hand in hand, and the entire town goes wild. They don’t know peace for a couple more weeks after that, Damen is barely able to sneak out to go to Laurent, or vice-versa, and they have to settle back to their old ways of sending notes over. Nikandros hates him for a while, after that.

Damen develops new recipes, inspired in part by the cookbook he borrowed when he met Laurent - and to think that’s what jammed everything into motion -, in part by his souvenirs of his mother’s cuisine, and in part by Laurent’s own taste. Damen can guess that he’s more than happy to help, being the first one who’s able to taste test the creations. There are many days spent in Laurent’s kitchens, Lazar gushing over them, the staff orbiting them with both curiosity and delight, and Laurent and himself stealing a couple of kisses whenever no one is looking. 

Laurent stops his… extra activities. After admitting to them to Damen, and even though he kept saying he would still move things ahead without his power, that it would only take more time, he agrees instead to keep investing his own money, in smaller doses, into charities, while discussing and then putting in place ways to make his fortune flourish, helped by Damen. Ancel pouts when he realizes he won’t have any more excuses to sleep with rich nobles, and Damen laughs when Berenger heaves a sigh of relief. 

Jokaste gives birth to a lovely little girl, and Damen goes back home for a few days, to greet his niece. He spends the first couple of days at his brother’s estate, enjoying his family’s presence, cooing after the lovely dark-haired pale-skinned baby, who already adores him. Jokaste and Kastor have him promise that he won’t coddle or spoil her too much. He tells them he won’t, though he crosses his fingers behind his back when he does.

The next few days are… harder. Damen finally decides to go back to the estate. His estate.

The Akielos manor still stands proud, as if nothing had changed. The staff have been keeping it in its best shape, and when Damen crosses the front doors, he swears he could see his mother and father walking down the hall, like they did so many times in years passed. But there’s only him, staring at the emptiness. 

He checks that his affairs are all in order, and he sleeps in his bed, in his old room, for the first time since their death. It’s a lonely night, but strangely cathartic. He emerges with a newfound state of stability, and even makes his way to the kitchens. A few tears drop down his cheeks as memories of the hours he and his parents spent here come flooding back to the surface, but instead of his heart breaking, there’s a softness, a warmth there. 

It carries on as Damen walks outside, and finally reaches the last of his fears. The plants on the archway aren’t blooming anymore with winter drawing so close, but he can still picture them in the spring, white flowers swaying in the breeze, and his mother under them, smiling, laughing. Catching his hand and dragging him forward for a game of chase through the bushes. 

His mother’s garden hasn’t changed either. They’ve kept it the way it was, except for the statue of her and his father, in the center. It wasn’t there, before. Now it stands tall, overlooking the whole expanse of flowers and trees. It’s a space out of time. Damen feels both soothed and nostalgic, and as he walks to the south part of the garden - his mother’s small patch of vegetables and fruits and herbs - he feels a weight lift off his shoulders. The vegetable garden is empty, has been for a while. Maybe one of these days, he might have new things planted there. He could get them to be brought to Marlas on supply runs. He’s sure his customers would like that. He knows he would.

When he gets back to Marlas, there’s another surprise waiting for him. He’s behind the counter again, impatiently counting the minutes till the end of his work day so that he can go and see Laurent again, when the door opens on a familiar silhouette. 

It’s like a memory being played live for him once again. Nicaise enters, drawn by the familiar scents, except this time he isn’t glaring at Damen. He isn’t smiling, either, but he’s warmed up to him, and Damen has no doubt that, in time, he’ll get the kid to stop threatening to skewer him with various utensils. 

“What’s your pastry of choice today?” Damen asks, gesturing to the array of fresh baked goods. But Nicaise isn’t looking at them. Instead, he’s looking at him. 

And then he’s taking something out of his pocket - a paper - and slamming it on the counter in front of Damen.

“Laurent wanted to surprise you with the news tonight. But I thought, since after all this is about me, I’d be just as good to break the news to you earlier,” he grumbles, but the corner of his mouth lifts, ever so slightly, and his eyes are sparkling.

Damen’s own eyes go to the paper and the words scribble on it. He reads diagonally, as fast as he can. He stops. Blinks. Looks back up at Nicaise. And smiles so hard he thinks it’ll hurt tomorrow. “You’re officially adopted,” he says, in awe.

Nicaise shrugs and nods at the same time, trying to appear detached, but he’s scuffing his feet and a blush colors his face. He isn’t fooling Damen. “Finally,” he says. And then he’s caught off guard by Damen moving around the counter, and hugging him, hard. 

There are protests and screeches and even a foot slightly kicking his chin, but Damen only releases the teenager once he feels his happiness has been sufficiently expressed in the form of his embrace, which takes a long time. By the Gods, he’s so proud. Proud of Laurent for finally taking the jump. And proud of Nicaise, most of all, because after all this time, he finally has an actual family. And though he keeps complaining and pestering everyone, Damen can tell he’s at home in the De Vere manor. With Laurent, and everyone else. 

Nicaise is still grumbling when he leaves, trying to unruffle his hair, and he hasn’t bought anything, but Damen sees the little jump in his steps once he’s back on the street. His smile doesn’t leave him until he closes his shop, and still doesn’t leave him when he’s at Laurent’s and they all celebrate the news around a good meal, Nikandros having been dragged by force to join them and joining Nicaise in his grumbling. And his smile doesn’t leave still as he kisses Laurent goodbye, slowly and steadily. It only leaves when he falls asleep, and only because his muscles need to relax at some point.

And then, they finally go riding together. 

It’s cold outside, winter drawing nearer as the days trickle by, but at least today the sun’s out, shining its most welcome rays onto the path around town. Damen’s gelding keeps shaking his head and snorting, energized by the low temperatures, and he reigns him in more than once, nearly falling off when the horse bucks and then slips on the frozen grass. Damen grumbles, pats the animal’s neck to soothe him, and resumes at a slower pace. 

They didn’t plan to meet in the clearing this time, their latest experience still leaving a sour taste in both their mouths. Instead, Damen turns before he reaches the woods, and finds himself near Laurent’s stables. He catches sight of Aimeric, walking two dogs, and though the man waves at him awkwardly - he hasn’t been able to quite look Damen in the eye even after Laurent forgave him - Damen smiles back, and nods. He steers clear of them only because he knows the dogs by now, and both Lys and Crocus would try and jump on his horse to greet him. With their sizes, they might even manage to get a lick in before getting kicked down by his mount. Damen doesn’t want to have to explain to Laurent why the dogs got trampled.

Speaking of Laurent, he can see a dappled gray mare making its way toward them, and, sitting atop it, the De Vere heir. Damen is struck once again, just like he’d been on their first meeting, by how sophisticated and graceful Laurent looks. He’s wearing his usual riding clothes, dark pants and a tight vest over a laced shirt, but he’s had to put on a coat this time as well, a marvelous piece of cloth of the finest tailor, no doubt Charles’ work, blue striking against the man’s complexion, highlighted by the stark white fur at its edges. 

He doesn’t say any of this, of course. Instead he greets Laurent with a soft smile and exchanges a few pleasantries with him, but he tries to tame down the admiration in his eyes. 

“Nikandros wasn’t too mad about having to work alone once again, I hope?” Laurent asks, and Damen knows he’s teasing, because there’s that dimple at the corner of his mouth, and also because he knows very well that Nikandros made his life especially hard because of his request for a day off.

Damen shakes his head, and laughs, “Let’s just go,” he replies, kicking his horse into a trot.

His hands are sweaty on the reins, his heart picking up not only from the exercise, but Laurent doesn’t seem to notice. He’s babbling about the advancement of Paschal’s orphanage, and Damen gathers that it shall be ready by the half of next year. He’s pleased to hear that. Apparently, Nicaise specifically asked to be involved in decisions regarding the way the orphanage is run, and both Paschal and Laurent agreed.

“The responsibilities will do him good,” Damen muses, thinking about the angry kid that came into his shop that day, and how he will blossom in the future. How he already is. All thanks to Laurent.

The warmth in his heart is back, and he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he lets it take over, feeling it exhume his magic, sparks flying into his chest and under his skin. He looks over at Laurent, and Laurent is looking back at him, stricken, because he can no doubt feel it as well. They’ve been experimenting on their bond for the past few weeks, and it’s the first time Damen has been able to manifest it so clearly, he thinks. At least it’s the first time Laurent has been able to feel it without touching him. 

It brings him immense joy, and Damen laughs some more, winks at Laurent, and, making sure the ground is even and unfrozen, launches his horse into a canter. The animal responds instantly, all too happy to unwind. He’s zooming ahead only for a few seconds before Laurent catches up to him, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and then he passes Damen by in an obvious challenge.

Oh, they’re on.

They race for a few minutes, until the trail narrows and they can’t gallop anymore. They’re both breathless from the effort and their laughs by the time they’ve slowed down to a walk, and neither of them knows who won. Damen brings his horse right next to Laurent’s, their calves brushing. Even through layers of fabric, the contact feels daring. 

“We should take a break,” Laurent says, and he points to a small clearing by an even smaller stream. They both dismount, tying their mounts to branches, and settle down next to the water, listening to the sounds of nature. The rustling of the leaves, the bubbling of the current, the tweeting of the birds. 

Though it distracts him for a while, Damen’s heart never settles. His left pocket feels like it’s burning a hole into his abdomen, right where he was stabbed a couple of months ago. He gulps. Opens his mouth. 

Laurent speaks before he can. “By the gods, it’s freezing out here,” he says, rubbing his shoulders.

Damen snickers. “Your coat is heavier than mine, how are you cold right now?”

Laurent glares, but it’s without heat. “Just because you’re a giant animal running on pure adrenaline doesn’t mean us mere mortals don’t suffer from the whims of nature, you know?”

With a roll of his eyes, Damen indulges him, “If you wanted a snuggle, you could have just asked plainly, instead of using all those fancy words.”

Shaking his head, Laurent tries to pretend he’s just going on with Damen’s antics. “If you’re offering, then I’m not opposed to it.”

Damen raises the side of his own coat. “Come, then,” he beckons, his hand shaking, ever so slightly.

It only takes a few seconds for Laurent to comply. He bundles tighter into his own coat, and slides to Damen’s left side, burying himself under layer and layer. “Thank you,” he says. “I truly am cold.”

Damen can’t resist. He leans forward, and pushes a delicate kiss on the crown of Laurent’s head. Laurent startles, but when their eyes meet, he’s smiling, softly. After only a moment’s hesitation, he takes Damen’s right hand - the one that isn’t already around Laurent’s shoulders - and either he doesn’t notice the tremors running through it, or attributes them to the cold, because he doesn’t say anything. “I know something that could warm us up,” he suggests.

And then immediately blushes. But before he can explain his meaning, Damen leans forward, a smirk on his lips. “Do you now?” he asks, smug. “That’s an awfully bold proposition, even for you, my lord.” 

It’s Laurent’s turn to tremble, though Damen is pretty sure it isn’t from the cold this time. Still, he just shrugs, acting as though his cheeks aren’t swarming with a blush. “You know what I meant,” he retorts, clutching Damen’s hand a little harder.

Damen softens. “I do.” And then, “You can go ahead.”

Laurent has been very careful in his testing of his gift, for the past couple of weeks. Or at least he’s told Damen so, and Damen is inclined to believe him, both because his trust for Laurent knows no bound, and because of the time it takes him to get his breathing under control, before, finally, he releases his magic.

They haven’t tried this ever since they were in Damen’s home, but he hasn’t forgotten the feeling of it. The way it builds up, slowly at first, and then flaring, a sensation of pure happiness shot right into his veins, amplifying what’s already there. It doesn’t totally eclipse his nervousness, but for a couple of minutes Damen finds himself caring much less for what it is he has planned.

Of course the moment doesn’t last forever. It feels like it, though. The both of them, hidden into the woods, exchanging soft words and softer kisses, magic thrumming between them. An unbreakable bond.

“I’m so happy the Gods put you into my path,” Laurent sighs, his head on Damen’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine what would have happened if they hadn’t.”

Damen clenches his fist. He can. Laurent would be dead, or close to it by now. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but his uncle would still be after him. And even if he was safe from all that, it would mean Damen would never have met him. He can’t imagine a world like that, a universe where that possibility came true. He thinks it would be torture.

“I’m glad they did too,” he whispers as an answer, because the remainder of his words are stuck in his throat. 

Sitting there, it’s like the world is still around them. Except the sun is running its course, and soon it will be dark, and they both will need to go back to their homes, and their responsibilities. Damen loves his work and his life, but sometimes it hurts, just a little bit, that he can’t spend most of his days at Laurent’s side.

For now, he thinks, and his resolve solidifies. 

He opens his mouth to speak again, when Laurent moves. He shakes his limbs to wake himself up from his torpor, blinks a few times. And rises. “I think it’s time to head back,” he says the words from the tip of his lips, just as unwilling to break the moment as Damen is.

Right when he’s turning toward the horses, Damen catches his hand. “Wait.”

Laurent turns back to him, a questioning look on his face. Damen shakes harder. Locks his muscles and works his jaw. If there was ever a time to say the words, now would be best, he thinks. And finally, drawing Laurent close to his chest, looking deep into his eyes, he says them.

“I love you.”

The murmur brushes against Laurent’s forehead, a secret admission that rings out into the forest. Damen feels lighter. But still, there’s sweat on his palms and on his brow, as he awaits the answer.

Laurent looks stunned, and he’s afraid it might be too soon. But then a smile blooms on his face, the most beautiful thing Damen as ever seen, and he knows. “I love you, too,” Laurent admits, pushing on his tip-toes to steal a kiss. It starts off as chaste, and quickly builds to more, passion firing up their blood. Damen has to force himself to draw away from Laurent to proceed with the rest of his plan.

“Good,” he breathes. “This would have been awkward otherwise.”

In one movement, he drops to his knee, and fishes the box out of his left pocket with his right hand. He opens it with just as swift a motion, and, before he can chicken out, or Laurent can say anything - because his brain has already processed what’s happening, Damen can tell, and his reaction is only milliseconds away - he asks.

“Lord Laurent, Earl De Vere, will you marry me?”

Silence. If Laurent was stricken before, it’s nothing compared to the look of utter bewilderment on his face now. His face goes through so many emotions it’s hard to read any of them. 

Damen can feel cold humidity seep into his pants at the knee, and he’s shaking again, as he awaits the answer. The plain gold bands he had forged sit into their box, a promise awaiting.

And then, very, very slowly, Laurent drops to his eye level. And he isn’t looking at the rings anymore. He’s staring straight on, at Damen, his face serious. And then he takes Damen’s hands in his, sends one, powerful jolt of magic through them, a burst more earth-shattering than anything they’ve ever felt before. And he says, “Yes.”

As Damen slips the ring over Laurent’s finger, and Laurent slips the other over his, the world around them falls silent. Listening intently. To their fluttering hearts, and the magic within. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **TW:** trauma over death (both on Laurent's and Damen's sides), kidnapping attempt using drugs, assassination attempt, short discussion of the Regent's past deeds, including abusing Nicaise and twisting Laurent's power to make him a weapon.  
> If I forgot anything, don't hesitate to tell me!
> 
> I thrive off comments! And I love to explore the AU's I create and the questions they raise regarding canon, so don't hesitate to hammer me with questions!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://kiseopingu.tumblr.com/).


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